


Mutually Assured Destruction

by A_bit_not_good_yeah



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, I'm sorry I keep adding kinks, Light Bondage, M/M, Men who can't talk about their feelings, Mentions of Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Rimming, Then totally resolved sexual tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, gunshot wound, it's always darkest before the dawn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_bit_not_good_yeah/pseuds/A_bit_not_good_yeah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond gripped Q’s hair, just shy of too rough and pulled him closer, testing, wanting to wipe that smug look off Q’s fucking beautiful face. “Well if not that, how would you characterise our—” he paused, letting the next word come out slowly, tinted black with implication, “—arrangement?”</p><p>Q’s eyes met Bond’s as he very gradually closed the distance between them, never blinking, even as his lips brushed 007’s in a shared breath that was electric with promise. “Mutually assured destruction.”</p><p> </p><p>Wherein Bond and Q can't seem to realize what their feelings are doing until they realize it. Hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first 00Q fic, so please bear with me. Not beta'd or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine.

“I like you like this.” Bond pitched his voice low, a deep bass note that seemed to caress its way onto Q’s skin. “You’re much less aggravating when your mouth is full.”

Q would have taken offence but Bond’s words held no real scorn, only mild amusement. All the same, he stopped the rapid flicker of his tongue across 007’s fraenulum and with a gorgeously filthy sucking noise slowly withdrew Bond’s cock out of his mouth.

“Well, if you’d follow procedure even half the time, I wouldn’t have to continually remind you not to damage my equipment.” Q lightly squeezed the hard length he still gripped in his left hand, as if to emphasize that his concern did not extend solely to the Walther.

Bond hummed noncommittally, reclined a bit further in his chair, then looked around the empty armoury. “So you’d rather I _always_ followed protocol?” He glanced pointedly at Q’s workstation. It had become rather untidy last week when 007 had hoisted his quartermaster to sit on top of it and proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes using his fingers and tongue to open Q’s entrance, spreading him raw and wide, while Q panted and writhed, but patently refused to beg for release. One side of Bond’s mouth quirked up in the ghost of a smile at the memory.

“Or is it that you want to be in control of what I do out there? You giving me orders, while I move around a giant chessboard that you command?”

Q regarded Bond coolly, still on his knees and unamused. “That’s not what I said. But then, they say hearing is the first thing to go at your age.”

Bond gripped Q’s hair, just shy of too rough and pulled him closer, testing, wanting to wipe that smug look off Q’s fucking beautiful face. “Well if not that, how would you characterise our—” he paused, letting the next word come out slowly, tinted black with implication, “—arrangement?”

Q’s eyes met Bond’s as he very gradually closed the distance between them, never blinking, even as his lips brushed 007’s in a shared breath that was electric with promise. “Mutually assured destruction.”

***

It began under the surface.

Bond rather liked the new/old MI6 building. He would train in the rooms they’d converted to a gym and often he would hear the rumbling groan of the building settling, or the faint thuds and growls of the cars running overhead on the street. These noises of the building’s weariness drowned out his own grunts of exertion. One late evening, he was just getting his gym bag out of his locker when he caught movement in his left periphery. Normally, Bond was the only one who roamed this area of MI6 at this hour, other field agents preferring the sleek glass and chrome of the expensive fitness center downstreet. Thus, it was unexpected for him to have company, and he turned to see who else would choose to come down to the dungeon in this old fortress.

Q looked so different without his glasses that it almost shocked Bond when the quartermaster emerged from the corridor that led to the showers, white towel wrapped nearly double around his rail thin body. It was rather like seeing a fawn emerge from a foggy glen. Bond traced his hand down the edge of the locker door, but he did not close it, content to keep his focus on the sight in front of him. The whole scene was unexpected—Q had rarely left the center of his web in Q branch in the three months Bond had known him. When he did, he certainly didn’t have his hair plastered to his forehead, while his bare chest (smooth, and completely hairless, Bond noted with a wry smile) still teemed with rivulets of water slaloming down the visible xylophone of his ribcage. He looked like a wet puppy. Noticing the way Bond’s eyes raked up and down his form, Q stood a bit straighter but made no move to hurry or hide. He simply kept moving past Bond further down the bank of lockers. Q’s tangible calmness did not escape Bond.

“Q,” Bond greeted him with a slight tilt of his head. It was also a question.

“007.” He plodded over to a locker at the end of the bank, not meeting the agent’s gaze, but not deliberately avoiding it. Q moved with the slightly awkward grace of one who is used to being unnoticed.

“Shouldn’t you be upstairs? Outfitting me a new Aston Martin, perhaps?”

“Actually, I’m working on one of your other requests. Despite my protests, Mallory suggested I follow up on the exploding pen idea. Seems he has a sense of humor.”

Bond’s eyes sparked at the image of his frustrated quartermaster, cursing his name while trying to make him an exploding pen. He turned back to the locker so Q wouldn’t see the smile playing across his face. “So you’ve taken to living here then? Really, I’m flattered, Q, but there’s no need to work such hours on my account.”

Q huffed derisively. “Well, saving your arse is more than a full-time job, but in this case it was the pen’s mess I was cleaning up, not yours. The ink cartridge burst all over me, so I took advantage of the facilities.”

Bond finally closed the locker and turned to Q, leaning his left shoulder against the cool metal. “Don’t you usually keep a spare pile of ridiculous jumpers in the event of such a catastrophe?”

Q pulled some clothes out of the locker, flashing Bond a raised eyebrow. “Just one ridiculous jumper, and it’s in the wash. But then, we can’t all have a fleet of impeccably tailored suits ready at our beck and call, 007.” He piled the clothes on the bench next to the lockers, then turned to retrieve something else. Bond watched the glide of barely there muscle across Q’s back as he turned. When he straightened, his glasses were back in place, where they belonged. The towel remained around his waist, but it dipped just slightly when he leaned forward to grab a pair of grey wool trousers out of the locker.

Watching Q’s muscles shift over the sharp corners of his bones as he moved, James was struck, not for the first time, by his thinness. He considered making a crack about keeping a spare pile of sandwiches handy rather than jumpers, but stopped. If he made a joke, he knew it would betray the sudden realisation that he wanted to touch those hard lines. Though he was hardly the poster boy for restraint, Bond didn’t want to show his hand quite so soon. Let the intrigue play out a bit longer. And he _was_ intrigued. There was nothing soft or yielding about Q, not like a woman. That Bond should be observing with this amount of interest was a signal of future complications. But Bond was a man of the present only. And presently, he was watching Q pull a thin white vest over all of those sharp, pale lines of his chest. The few curves Q had were fascinating in contrast—the swoops and whorls of his thick mop of drying hair, the stark curve of his ribs, visible through the vest, and the jut of his hipbones peeking over the edge of the towel. Bond felt a stirring of heat pooling in his gut. The ghost of Silva’s touch on his scar came back to him, but he shoved it away, hard, leaving only a faint bitter aftertaste as he focused his attention back to the quartermaster. Not his first time, indeed.

Q missed none of this. He may not have been a field agent, but he was trained in details. He lived in the gaps between zeroes and ones, and that meant people tended to underestimate his ability to read people. They were wrong to do so. Bond’s gaze did not trouble him as he methodically began to button his light blue Oxford shirt. Q knew that Bond was dangerous—he was the very meaning of the word rogue. However, Q had not yet figured out how to decode 007. He did not yet know where the gaps were. Therefore, Q remained neutral on the outside while inside his mind whirled with interest. He gripped the white towel around his waist and paused, prepared to drop it. He glanced at Bond, with a _do you mind?_ expression. He was not embarrassed, and he was not looking to tease or seduce, merely to observe Bond’s reaction. But Q did not know if that was a card he wanted to play yet, so he paused and waited to see just how interested Bond was.

Bond gracefully pushed off the locker he had been leaning against and took two long strides towards Q. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were dark. Q’s hands still gripped the towel, but 007’s predatory aura pinned him in place, motionless. Bond reached out and slid his hand around the base of Q’s skull, under the loose collar of the Oxford shirt, rubbing his thumb just behind his ear. As his thumb trailed along the line where Q’s jawbone ended, down to his pulse point, the rest of his fingertips caressed along Q’s hairline, until Bond slowly dragged his hand all the way down the column of Q’s throat before pulling back. Q’s skin was flushed from the shower, but he still felt the heat of Bond’s hand like a brand on his skin. It took every ounce of control Q possessed not to shudder at the heat and pressure of that touch. Bond leaned fractionally closer, holding up his hand to show Q the blurred indigo smudge on the pad of his thumb. “You missed a bit.”

Bond then sidestepped around Q and headed for the door, calling, “Don’t work too late, Q,” as he left.

Q ran a hand through his damp hair and exhaled. Oh yes, he was very interested to learn how to decode James Bond.

***

There was gunfire all around him. Typical.

He checked the flash drive was still in his inner coat pocket, turned left and rolled behind a cargo van, checking around the side for the three men he was evading.

“I said right. 007? Do we need to review the difference between your left and your right?” The voice in his ear was calm and cool, as always. In spite of their prickly beginning, Bond had quickly grown accustomed to the weight of Q’s voice in his ear over the last six months. Q was steadfast and collected on all of their missions together. Bond had soon realized that he could feel the thick presence of Q, not just on missions, but at all times, in the back of his mind, curled just at the top of his spine. It was oddly comforting.

“Better cover here.” James scanned the street and saw one of the men pursuing him dodge around an oncoming Jeep.

“I’m trying to get you to the extraction point, and there’s a blind spot in this construction site. If you make me reroute another satellite just to maintain visual—”

“Come now. You love a challenge.” Bond didn’t even sound out of breath, although Q could hear the sharp cracks of bullets passing by uncomfortably close to Bond.

“Some more than others. And keeping you alive is nothing if not challenging. Gunman behind you, second floor window.” Two sudden cracks, then Q watched the satellite feed as Bond tilted his head back and winked at the sky. Cheeky fucker.

“There’s an alley fifteen metres ahead on your right.”

“Right.”

It was late in northern Bucharest, and the half-finished construction site was deserted, populated only with shadows. Q watched the feed, expecting Bond to head towards the alley, but instead Bond broke cover, ducking into the remnants of a doorway in the crumbling office complex. Two more cracks and Q saw a man tumble from the rooftop of the building opposite.

“Bond. The alley.”

“I need to recover something.”

“There’s no time. Go back. Meet the extraction team.” Q’s voice did not waver, in pitch or in volume, but Bond could hear the unyielding force behind his words.

Q saw another gunman peek out from behind a stack of bags of concrete and barked, “Left!” but not quickly enough. The bullet caught Bond by surprise and tore through the muscle of his left arm, leaving a deep groove in his bicep that was quickly blooming blood. The grunt that was ripped out of 007 was low, a lungful of air huffed quietly between clenched teeth. Q estimated that the noise was 30% pain, 70% annoyance. Bond fired, hit, and permanently stilled the man who’d landed the shot. Still, Bond was too far from the extraction point, and if the bullet had gotten anywhere close to his brachial artery, there might not be enough time to get him to a medic.

“I’ve alerted the team that you need a medic. If you cross back now, you should be out of the other one’s line of fire. You need to leave, now.”

“Give me two minutes.”

“Dammit, Bond, I really m—” Bond took his earpiece out and put it in his inside pocket next to the flash drive. He glanced around the shelter of the doorway and spotted the spook who had landed a lucky blow to his kidney outside of the hostel where Bond had reclaimed the flash drive. He was running on a long series of thick girders, illuminated clearly in the moonlight. Bond aimed carefully—he was twenty metres out, but the pause in between heartbeats was where his instincts were the sharpest.

One shot and he was down. Another nameless casualty.

Bond put his earpiece back in as he checked his surroundings for any possible remaining mercenaries. They were all dead. He jogged to where the body had fallen, sprawled across a wheelbarrow filled with detritus. Bond’s arm was throbbing, and he knew he was bleeding an amount that bordered on worrisome. Digging through the spook’s pockets, he found what he was looking for and then headed back across the street. As he ran, he felt more than heard the chill of Q’s, “Welcome back. Are you quite done?”

***

Q was surrounded by blue light, and it should have been calming. It wasn’t.

The server room at MI6 was a thing of beauty. How could it not be? It was Q’s design and his own personal fortress below ground. He had created seventeen different safety protocols for this room alone that ensured it was the most protected place he could possibly be right now. Normally, that thought comforted him, but right now it actually angered him further, knowing that even down here he couldn’t be protected from the rage racing inside of him. He was too raw to be soothed. At least the hum of the servers partially drowned out his thoughts as he stood at the terminal in the center of the room. The chilled air that was pumping through the vents would normally have bothered him, but he was seething. Catching his reflection in the walls of bulletproof glass, he was almost ashamed at how flushed he looked, how discombobulated. He could feel the blood rushing just below the surface of his skin, scorching him from the inside out.

He knew, he _knew_ that he had been assigned 007 as a test, a dig at his youth and his inexperience. Though MI6 had come to him—one totally innocent hack of the personnel section of the Joint Intelligence Committee was all it took to have queen and country knocking at your door—he was well aware of the flickers of surprise behind people’s eyes when he introduced himself as head of Q branch. He had more than proven himself in the last year, which is why he’d risen through the ranks so quickly, and why he had welcomed the opportunity to be the quartermaster for the most notorious of the double-ohs. He was beyond capable; he studied, he planned, he built, and he executed each mission flawlessly during his training. And yet. James Bond himself might actually be the one thing that he could not have planned for, the variable he had missed. The innuendos and winks, the unpredictable appearances in Q branch where Bond watched Q work and teased him, and fiddled with things until Q scolded him and tried (and failed) to hide his smile, even the razor-sharp cut of Bond’s suits—all of it drove Q _insane._

He heard the echo of footsteps in the hallway and did not look up. He recognized the exact pressure of each footfall, felt each one like a heartbeat.

“Q.” Bond’s voice was muffled through the glass, but Q was as accustomed to its low pitch in his ear as he was to breathing.

He checked through the lines of code for the FTP servers for the hundredth time, letting the numbers wash over his mind like water. Instead of feeling refreshed, he only felt drenched and weighed down.

“Q, open the door.”

Q refused to move. He would not allow Bond to get the better of him, not down here. He took a deep breath and continued to let his fingers fly over the keys in front of him.

“I’m busy at the moment, 007.”

Bond simply stood, waiting. And goddammit if the silent pull of him wasn’t a tangible force that was wearing down all of his resolve. Q looked up, and in the blue glow of the server room, Bond looked so very tired. His suit was dusty and torn, and the bandaged bullet hole in his arm peeked through the ragged gape in the fabric. Earlier, Q had listened silently over the com as Bond had been given the cursory once-over from the medic with the extraction team and had his wound cleaned, listened to the steady waves of Bond’s breathing, listened to hear the pain in between each heartbeat. When the medic declared the wound non-life-threatening, Q released the breath he had been holding, and felt something come loose inside of his chest. It spread a warmth that turned into a flame, an anger that he had never felt before and which frightened him in its intensity. Now, four hours later, staring at the man who was the cause of that anger, Q willed his shaking hands to be still as he typed in the command to open the door to the room.

With a pneumatic hiss, the door opened and Bond walked in but did not approach the center terminal where Q stood. Q was still resolutely staring at him, and Bond seemed to understand that openly challenging him here would be a bad idea. He knew he was in Q’s territory now, not like the locker room, not like out in the field. Here was where Q lived. Bond had never been in the server room before, because Q had never let him in before.

“Listen, I saw the opportunity—” Bond started, but Q snorted derisively, angrily. When he spoke, the words were as chilled as the air in the server room. “Save it. I don’t care. I am your eyes and ears in the field. I am the one who watches everything, plans routes, unlocks doors, anticipates threats from thousands of miles away so that you can do your job. All I ask— _all I ask_ is that you show me enough fucking respect to let me do mine.”

Bond cocked his head slightly, and his blue eyes, normally piercing on their own, appeared to glow in the ultramarine light. “You think I don’t respect you.”

“I think you don’t take me seriously, and I think that one day it’s going to get you killed.”

Bond opened his mouth to protest and Q was upon him in three quick strides. They stood nearly chest-to-chest and eye-to-eye and all of the rage that Q felt at the arrogance of this man, at his dismissal of Q’s instructions, and his absolute refusal to admit his own mortality, all of it radiated out of his skin. They stood so close that Q could feel the heat coming off his own body, reflected back onto him in the face of 007’s cool immovability. “Don’t. Don’t patronize me. The next time you ignore my instructions on a mission, it may not just be your arm that has a bullet through it. I am the one who has to watch it when you get hurt. I am the one who listens.” He was breathing heavily now, and his eyes darted back and forth behind his glasses, searching 007’s, trying to see if he had in any way found his way into the space between Bond’s words and his actions. But all that gazed back at him was ice and a cobalt glow.

Q broke eye contact first, and gingerly touched the torn fabric around the bullet wound, taking care not to graze the skin. He exhaled, shook his head, and headed for the door. Before he got to the threshold, he stopped and turned his head, addressing Bond a final time, so low that Bond almost didn’t hear him.

“I am responsible for you.”

***

As if the day hadn’t already been long enough, Q came home to find a stray.

He had gone home late, much later than the rest of Q Branch. They were used to his round the clock hours by now, so no one questioned his refusal to go home, and if they noticed a particular tetchiness, a tightness around his eyes, no one mentioned it. Inserting his key into the lock, he heard the click of the tumblers echo and knew right away that something was wrong. He silently took from his bag a small silver cylinder. It contained a powerful pressurized capsule which, when deployed, would release a compound of Q’s own invention that would knock out a grown man for at least two hours. Flicking on the light, hoping to surprise whoever was in the flat, he held his weapon at the ready when he heard, “Took you long enough. Don’t you have some kind of alarm for when things like this happen?”

Q sighed and stowed the weapon back in his bag. “What are you doing here?”

“I needed to return my equipment and debrief with my quartermaster.”

Bond was dressed down, jeans and a charcoal jumper. He looked different without the armour of his well-tailored suits. His edges were less sharp. Seeing the deadliest man he knew standing in his living room was a surreal image, even for Q, and this change of costume made Bond even harder to grasp.

 “007, I’m really quite knackered, and I just—”

“I told you I needed to recover something.”

“And I suppose this can’t wait until we’re actually at work.” Q pinched the bridge of his nose, anticipating the answer.

Bond simply gazed at him, cool blue eyes evaluating. Testing.

Q placed his messenger bag on the long marble-topped bar in his kitchen. Bond surveyed the flat, taking in his surroundings now that the lights were on. White carpeting, clean lines, nothing opulent. Bond was expecting chrome and glass, but the flat was actually homey, if a bit bare. The few pieces of furniture were some overstuffed armchairs and dark mahogany bookshelves. Bond gravitated towards them and scanned the titles—lots of textbooks, standards like Shakespeare, and a surprising amount of poetry.

“Keats?”

Q looked up from his task of putting the kettle on. “He was singularly focused on his passion, and was able to write a great deal in his short life. Some of it’s rubbish, but some is quite…elegant.”

James quirked an eyebrow at that, but said nothing. He watched Q arrange his tea, getting his mug ready. It was methodical, patient. He moved with such quiet assuredness, as if the only action he had ever performed was making tea. Once everything was prepared and he waited for the kettle to boil, he came to lean against the bar, green eyes flashing at Bond, revealing the impatience brewing under the calm exterior.

Q’s frequency was pitched too high. He was hyperaware of every breath 007 took, of the immovable presence of him, standing in his flat, invading his space. His anger from before hadn’t entirely dissipated, but his curiosity at this version of Bond was crowding in. They’d been working together for six months now, and until this moment, Q would have said that he knew everything one could know about James Bond. He had Bond’s file memorized. He had drawn a map in his head of every scar—at least the physical ones. He knew the inside of James Bond, knew what he sounded like when he ran, when he bluffed, when he smoked, when he fucked. It came with the job. But this home invasion was blurring boundaries, and he did not know where to file it away.

Bond came forward to stand in front of Q, close enough to make Q’s heartbeat quicken slightly but not to crowd him. He pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it into Q’s hand. The brush of his fingertips across Q’s palm lingered, just a second too long, and Q took in a shuddery breath as he looked down at the object he was now holding.

It was a watch, an Omega Seamaster that Q had modified five months ago for a mission to Belize. The titanium casing was scratched and the formerly flawless black lacquer face was dulled by scorch marks. The cobalt numerals and hands could barely be seen, and the metal was scored and shredded. All in all, a tragic end for such a work of art.

Q turned the watch over in his hands, touching it with disbelieving fingers. “You told me this was destroyed in the explosion.”

“I lied.”

“Why? The heat would have damaged any of the transmitters I added, and it’s hardly worth keeping as a timepiece now.”

“I wanted to keep it.”

“Why?” Q looked up from charred face of the watch to the heated blue gaze focused on him.

“Because you made it for me.”

Q swallowed thickly. “So. You kept this. Why did you lie about it? Why are you telling me about this now?”

Bond inched marginally closer, and he was still looking at Q’s face, at Q's red lips and dark lashes juxtaposed against the strong line of his jaw. For a genius, he was being awfully thick. James had been waiting for the right moment to—well no, that wasn’t quite right. Until today, he’d mostly been trying to dismiss his interest as just a fact of his life, background noise. It was part of his routine every day, a series of threads that wound through his thoughts, whispered in his ear, appeared behind his eyelids when he was going to sleep, and all of the threads tied back to his quartermaster. But it was better to just leave it at casual flirtation. If his resurrection had taught him anything, it was that long-term connections were a liability—one he no longer thought he could bear. So he teased and he flirted, and Q let him, and it was all fine.

If he went home after a mission and thought about those pretty red lips stretched around his cock while he stroked himself furiously in the shower, what of it? He was content to leave it at that, even if Q kept encroaching further and further into his life.

But today had unraveled him. Seeing Q so angry and disappointed would have been one thing, because Bond could crank him up to a level seven rage just by losing one of his infrared camera tie clips. It was the tremble in Q’s hands when he touched his bullet wound; it was the fierce possessiveness that he had betrayed. In a room surrounded by his finest work, all Q could focus on was him. God, it had nearly made James breathless and suddenly the background noise had become a scream that could no longer be ignored. So now, here he was. Bond moved another breath closer to the brilliant man standing in front of him.

“This is what I went back for. I told you I had to recover something.” Bond was speaking in a murmur, but to Q the words felt like a punch in the gut. He looked up sharply, green eyes searching blue, trying to gather more intelligence.

“You…you nearly missed the extraction team…and got _shot_ …so that you could get this watch back. I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do.”

James plucked the watch from Q’s grip and placed it on the bar behind him, leaning around him so that the stubble on his cheek brushed past Q’s, causing the quartermaster to shudder at the contact.

“Bond,” Q sighed into the agent’s ear, and Bond’s name was warm and heavy and perfect in his mouth.

“Call me James.”

“I think…you can’t—I think this is a bad idea.”

James pulled back so that he was looking directly at Q again, and then he smiled for the first time that day, a real smile. “No, you don’t.”

And it was that smile, that surety, which finally broke down the barrier between everything Q had been feeling all day and acceptance of what was right in front of him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to end it here, but the porn is coming, I promise. Also, you should know that the alternate title for this work is "Stormclouds and Buttsex" which pretty much sums it up. [Title borrowed from my friend Sarah (aka chemicaldefect)]
> 
> This is a WIP but I have more written already. I'm thinking there will be one more long part, but I might split it into 2. I will try to update this after the weekend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond kissed the way he did everything else—ruthlessly, unpredictably, and with great skill. He curled his tongue around Q’s, tasting the tension and desperation that had been building in him all day. 
> 
> “Where do I go next, quartermaster?” Bond murmured into the skin just under the shelf of Q’s jaw.
> 
> Q swallowed and closed his eyes, realizing that this was Bond’s way of apologizing for the day’s events. He could think of worse ways to apologize. When Q finally spoke, it was the calm and assured voice that he wore so well, albeit with a slightly husky rasp. “On your knees, 007.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically pure porn. Also, men who don't know how to talk about their feelings. Not beta'd or Brit picked, so all mistakes are mine.

It collapsed when they kissed.

Q felt all of the tension of the day coming out of him in one expulsion of breath and then he sagged under the weight of it. Bond came forward, concerned, until Q tilted his face up and then Bond’s eyebrows unknitted and he captured Q’s mouth with his.

Bond’s lips were softer than Q ever imagined, and he brought his hands up to curl around 007’s neck and grip the short hairs there, to anchor himself. For a moment, it seemed that both men were reluctant to move, so captivated were they by this first contact. But then, with a sweet slide of lips and a whisper of breath, oh, there was friction and the kiss shifted into something hungry, aching, and wanting. Q sucked the lush fullness of Bond’s lower lip between his teeth and Bond gripped Q’s hips as he swayed on his feet, giddy with the sensation. Bond opened his mouth further to curl his tongue behind his quartermaster’s teeth, tasting the sweet humidity of Q’s mouth. He let out a quiet groan when Q’s fingers tightened around the back of his neck, and when Q slid his right hand to caress the tight muscle of Bond’s trapezius, the agent pressed his thumbs into the dips of Q’s hipbones, curving into him. Bond pressed Q further into the hard edge of the bar, drifting stubbly kisses along the line of Q’s jaw, lathing a hot, wet stripe along Q’s pulse point while Q breathed out small, warm puffs of air.

“Tell me your real name,” Bond purred into Q’s ear before nipping at his earlobe and worrying it between his teeth when Q let out a brief surprised moan.

“I—I can’t.”

Bond pulled back and searched Q’s face, questioning. Q was flushed, his lips were kiss-swollen and his glasses were slightly askew, but he locked eyes firmly with Bond. “Not…not right now. I’m not ready for—you can call me Q, and I’ll call you Bond. Tonight, I just want…” he trailed off as he lightly stroked the soft cashmere over Bond’s stomach, then let his fingers play along the hem of the jumper, revealing a thin line of golden skin.

At Q’s words, a shadow passed over Bond’s eyes and was gone, too quick for anyone but the most careful observer to see. Q was a careful observer. Although the changes were minute, 007’s body language betrayed him; the slight squaring of his shoulders, the firm line of his jaw clenched just a touch tighter. Bond was putting his armour back on, and more than anything, Q wished he could get the moment back. Trying to appease, he grazed his knuckles on that strip of skin just above the waistband of Bond’s jeans, and as he brushed the growing bulge in Bond’s jeans with the back of his hand, both men sucked in a breath. “What _is_ it that you want?” Bond asked him, and his voice was smoke and sex and thick, growing _need_.

“I just. I want—” Q started, but he seemed helpless to finish, his pupils blown wide and his hands trembling as they continued to stroke over the tiny patch of skin revealed on Bond’s stomach. Seeming to understand, Bond cupped Q’s face in both of his hands and kissed him again. It was tenser at first, but quickly the heat rekindled between them, and their embrace soon grew hotter and more desperate. Q wanted to tell him, he did. He wanted to tell him his name and everything else, but this was a man who could destroy him in all senses of the word. He had to protect himself in some small way from giving in completely, because if he didn’t, he knew that James Bond would take everything and leave nothing but ashes in his wake.

Bond kissed the way he did everything else—ruthlessly, unpredictably, and with great skill. He curled his tongue around Q’s, tasting the tension and desperation that had been building in him all day. The kiss was growing sloppy and loose when Bond pressed his thigh into the space between Q’s parted legs and was rewarded with a thick, choking gasp as he felt the younger man grind his erection against him. Bond brought his hands to still Q’s hips, and then he began to explore Q’s neck, leaning into him so that they were chest-to-chest while he pressed open-mouthed kisses, letting his tongue trace patterns that made Q shiver and left blooming heat in their wake.

“Where do I go next, quartermaster?” Bond murmured into the skin just under the shelf of Q’s jaw.

Q was nearly panting now, still trying to gain some desperate friction against Bond’s leg, and he wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly. “What?”

Bond licked at the shell of his ear and spoke so low that Q could feel the vibrations in his chest echoing up through him before he really heard the words, “I’ve got no line of sight, so I need you to tell me where to go.”

Q swallowed and closed his eyes, realizing that this was Bond’s way of apologizing for the day’s events. He could think of worse ways to apologize. When Q finally spoke, it was the calm and assured voice that he wore so well, albeit with a slightly husky rasp. “On your knees, 007.”

Bond dropped to his knees instantly, and brought his hands up to stroke along Q’s thighs, up and back down again, drifting closer and closer to where Q wanted friction most, but not yet touching. Q might be in control, but that didn’t mean that Bond couldn’t still tease him a bit. Teasing Q was one of his life’s great joys.

Impatient, Q undid his flies with his graceful fingers and pushed his trousers down to knee level. With his thumb, Bond traced the underside of Q’s hard cock through the white boxer briefs he wore and grinned wolfishly as Q struggled to suppress a strangled cry at the contact. He then leaned in to mouth along the hard length through Q’s pants, dragging spit-slick lips along the shaft and up to the crown, sucking the head through the fabric and tasting the bitter saltiness where Q was already leaking precome. Q brushed his fingertips along Bond’s jaw and tried to memorize the image of 007 worshipping his cock through his pants. He had never felt anything so hot, wet, and filthy before.

After kissing the skin stretched over each of Q’s hipbones, Bond pulled Q’s pants down reverently and nuzzled against the hard length that was revealed, inhaling the woody clean smell of Q. Q’s prick was beautiful—long and slim, like the rest of him, and a lovely dusty pink color. His foreskin was completely retracted, and the tip was glistening from the precome that was now weeping from the slit. Glancing up at his quartermaster and never breaking eye contact, he dragged his tongue along the underside of Q’s cock, swirling it around the head and then swallowing him to the base in one swift movement. He closed his eyes as he slowly pulled off, hollowing his cheeks, and then sucked just the head into his mouth, working his tongue over the slit. Q moaned loudly, and, encouraged by the noise, Bond grabbed Q’s hands to place them on his head, glancing back up at him pointedly. _Tell me where to go._

Q threaded his fingers into Bond’s short blond hair, and began to thrust into the slippery sultriness of Bond’s mouth. God, the suction was perfect, and Bond’s tongue was everywhere, flicking and stroking and Q was nearly sobbing from the pleasure of it. He couldn’t speak at all; all that came out were consonants that trailed off into sighs, an endless series of “Fu…oh…Bon…ahhh…” At first, he tried to keep his thrusts shallow, but when he went particularly deep with one snap of his hips, he felt his head bump the back of Bond’s throat and the sudden constriction of Bond’s muscles as he gagged. “Shit! Sorry, sorry,” Q huffed, but Bond didn’t stop and instead took him in impossibly deeper, until his nose was tickled by the coarse strands of Q’s dark curls. Q continued to thrust, hitting the back of Bond’s throat each time, and he placed one hand along Bond’s jaw again, rubbing his thumb over and over where Bond’s lips stretched around his cock, hypnotized. The pressure was building, and he could feel his impending orgasm like electricity crackling at the base of his spine. Still working the flat of his tongue under the head of Q’s prick, Bond looked up at him with those crystalline blue eyes and brought his hand up to intertwine his fingers with Q’s at the place where their bodies met. The touch was so tender that it was almost unbearable, and suddenly Q was grasping and shaking and coming more forcefully than he’d ever felt in his life. He shouted “Oh god, Bond!” as Bond swallowed all of it, then carefully drew off, letting Q’s prick fall warm and heavy out of his mouth.

“Where to now, Q?”

Q’s muscles felt like water, but seeing 007 on his knees, still fully dressed and with what must now be a painful bulge in the denim that clung to him like a second skin, he was struck with another wave of lust. He pulled Bond up off his knees and swung around so that Bond was now the one pressed up against the bar. Now Q was like a whirlwind, pulling Bond’s jumper and vest off and covering the newly exposed expanse of skin with scorching, sloppy kisses, no more than a drag of lips and tongue along Bond’s collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, the hollow at the base of his throat. When he took a nipple into his mouth and grazed it with his teeth, Q grinned as Bond’s hands tangled in his hair and pulled. “God, Q, your mouth,” Bond sighed, and Q continued to tease the hardened nub between his teeth while at the same time his clever fingers popped the button on Bond’s jeans. Once he got 007’s flies down, he pushed past the waistband of the plain black boxers he found and curled his hand around Bond’s thick and achingly hard cock. Bond hissed at that first contact until Q leaned up to kiss him again, bruising, demanding, while his sure fingers stroked and pulled along Bond’s length. He brought his other hand down to gently roll Bond’s testicles against his palm, and the agent let out a choked whimper from the back of his throat while Q continued to ravage his mouth.

The quartermaster curled his tongue into Bond’s mouth, sucking at first his upper lip, then his lower, and Q whimpered in pleasure as the hands in his hair combed and massaged. Bond was quickly getting lost in the bliss of Q’s hands, at Q being in complete control. Surrendering to the sensations he was feeling was a rarity for Bond—too much of a liability in his line of work. But fuck, how he wanted to surrender everything in this moment to the sharp sting of Q’s teeth where his neck met his shoulder, to the slick sounds of Q’s hand on him, and the silky tangles of Q’s hair under his fingertips. That hair, that ridiculous hair, now wild and unkempt in his hands, and as he pressed his thumbs into the hollows at the base of Q’s skull, on either side of his spinal column, Q moaned and his grip became tighter on Bond’s cock, his fingers were slipping over the head and there was a knuckle pressing against his perineum and then he was coming, _fuck_ he was electrified, he was drowning, he was swept away.

Q continued kissing him after he came back down, just for a moment, just a gentle brush of his lips against Bond’s. Bond opened his eyes and looked at the young man in front of him, slightly dazed and panting.

“Where do I go now, Q?” 007’s voice came out in a ragged whisper, and the look in his eyes was not the cocksure gloat that Q was expecting. Q cleared his throat and attempted to discreetly tuck himself away while he tried to understand what Bond was really asking. It was too much to think about right now, and if he started to think about how this changed everything—he was not ready to look into that gaping darkness of uncertainty. So he simply took Bond’s hand, pressed a kiss to his palm and said, “You go to get some sleep,” and, turning out the light, led him down the hall to the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I told you the porn was coming! Next time there will be more feelings. Probably also more porn, who am I kidding. I'm hoping to update after next weekend again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What…is this?” Q breathed. He was afraid that if he moved, the spell would be broken and Bond would dissolve into the fragments of a dream Q could swear he’d had before.
> 
> “You had a bad day at the office. Thought you could use a little unwinding.” Bond didn’t look at Q, just spoke lowly into the darkness of the room. Q was hypnotised by the soft ripple of the muscles in Bond’s shoulders and back when he spoke.
> 
> “And this is how you try to relax me?”
> 
> At this, Bond looked over his shoulder at Q still standing in the doorway. “Well I wasn’t going to rub your feet.”
> 
>  
> 
> Wherein Bond and Q now have to figure out what their feelings are doing now that there's sex involved--lots and lots of DIRTY sex. Not beta'd or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine.

Bond slept like the recently dead.

They had collapsed into bed after Q found a flannel and gave them each a cursory wipe-down so as not to get come all over his sheets. Bond’s breathing evened out immediately, and Q had watched him for awhile, lost in his own thoughts. He could see all of the scars like constellations across Bond’s skin. It frightened him that he ached to catalogue each and every one of them with his fingertips and his tongue, to file them away through sense memory until he could reconstruct Bond through his touch alone. This was the start of something dangerous, if it was the start of anything at all. This was James Bond, for fuck’s sake. Q would be a fool to believe that this could ever be anything more than whatever had just happened. Letting a secret agent into your bed was akin to sleeping with death itself. Best to keep a distance here, to avoid the inevitable aftermath. Q could not afford an emotional entanglement with a man so volatile as 007. They would work and maybe fuck, and that would be all. With this entirely sensible plan in mind, Q finally dropped off to sleep with one hand gently curled around the stretch of skin just under the bandage on Bond’s wounded arm.

***

“007,” Q breathed in a hot gust against Bond’s neck as the agent scissored two fingers inside of Q’s slick, grasping hole. It had only been a few days since they last touched, but already Q was inflamed. They were on Q’s couch in various states of undress; Q naked save for his navy blue cardigan and rumpled white Oxford shirt, now divested of some of its buttons, while Bond still wore his loosened tie and his suit’s trousers at half mast, but no pants. The messy sounds trickling from Q’s mouth were a result of Bond’s blunt fingers and their stretching, seeking progress.

Bond kissed Q fiercely, swallowing the broken syllables his quartermaster was releasing. When they broke the kiss, Bond’s unoccupied hand trailed up between Q’s shoulder blades, tracing a path that was damp with sweat until he brought his hand around to cup Q’s cheek, while he rubbed his thumb along the delectable swell of Q’s red lips. Q opened his mouth and sucked the agent’s thumb inside, whimpering at the sensation of Bond’s fingers inside him at both ends. He swirled his tongue around the pad of Bond’s thumb just as he rolled his hips up, squeezing the fingers inside him, trying to taste Bond’s fingerprints everywhere. Q’s hands were gripping Bond’s hips so he could keep his balance on the agent’s lap as his coltish limbs quaked at the pleasure coursing through him. Locking eyes with Bond, Q brought his hand up to Bond’s mouth and pressed his palm lightly to Bond’s lips. Bond snaked his tongue out and licked a hot stripe into Q’s palm while simultaneously adding a third lubed finger to Q’s fluttering arsehole. Q stuttered out a groan and then used his moistened palm to wrap around his own erection and Bond’s. The whispering slide of Q’s cock against Bond’s made the agent hiss in a breath and press up, up to graze against Q’s prostate. Q’s sob of pleasure sounded wounded and he ground down on Bond’s fingers harder while continuing to pump his fist around himself and Bond.

“Please,” Q gasped into the cavern of Bond’s mouth.

“Please.”

Removing his fingers from Q’s hole, Bond grabbed the condom and extra packet of lube he had brought and in seconds he was sheathed and slicked up, pressing against the curve of Q’s arse. Bond had never wanted to hear anyone beg as much as he did right now. Q’s thin body, trembling and thrumming with arousal while splayed across his lap, was a work of art. Bond reached up to the sweat-dampened nape of Q’s neck and brought their mouths together in a messy, sloppy press of lips.  He circled the head of his cock around Q’s twitching, sensitive entrance, and then rolled his hips so that the full length of his cock slid between Q’s cheeks to rub against his fluttering hole. When he slid forward and back a second time, Q gripped Bond’s hair and growled, “007, if you don’t start fucking me **right now** I will ensure that your next mission is a one-way trip.” Bond grinned and slowly pressed into Q with one luxurious roll of his hips.

It took all of Bond’s willpower not to come right then, as Q’s internal muscles gripped him, shivering and taut all around him. Q sighed and braced himself on Bond’s shoulders so that he could finally, finally move. Bond gripped Q’s hips, leaving the beginnings of mottled bruises under his fingertips as Q slowly slid up Bond’s shaft and back down again. Their bodies heaved and surged like waves, moving in an easy rhythm, and when Q looked into Bond’s eyes, he was startled to see the depth of emotion, of desperation there. His heart clenched and he leaned forward to kiss Bond urgently, a clash of tongues and teeth as sparks lit up behind his eyes with each of Bond’s sharp thrusts. Their pace was quickening to the point of becoming frantic, and Q’s throbbing cock bobbed in front of him as he rode Bond at a full gallop. “Fuck,” Q choked out as he felt the wires of his muscles tightening, tightening, and he angled his hips just right, and then Bond’s hand was on his cock with just the right amount of pressure and heat and Q was hurtling over the brink, keening and quaking as he spilled over Bond’s hand. He felt Bond surge upward and, before Q had even finished riding out the aftershocks of his orgasm, Bond crushed Q to him and let out the muffled roar of his release into the thin skin stretched across Q’s collarbone.

***

Before Bond reached Q branch, he could already tell it was a three-cup day.

Two of the techs Bond recognized from Q’s staff wore frazzled expressions as they hurried past Bond in the corridor. When one woman stumbled in her haste and dropped the stack of papers she’d been holding, Bond thought she might actually burst into tears. He helped her scoop up the papers and then opened the door to Q branch, staying surreptitiously at the back to watch his quartermaster work.

And there he was, shoulders hunched and typing frantically with one hand; with the other, he held out his Scrabble mug to be refilled with Earl Grey by his assistant. So, a four-cup day then.

There had been an incident in Paraguay earlier, Bond knew, so he anticipated a very tense Q, and he was not disappointed. He suppressed a dark smile considering just how he might relieve some of that tension later. It had been almost a week since he had heard the sinful sounds of Q’s moans, and he was trying not to think too much about just how badly he wanted to grab the young man by his rumpled cardigan and drag him off to some dark corner to make him scream until he shattered with pleasure. Those moments every few days when Q was boneless and sated in his arms were becoming an addiction, and that worried Bond.

He was becoming emotionally compromised, he knew, and that was troubling. The idea of anything lasting between them was laughable for dozens of reasons, not the least of which was the short expiration date for all double-oh agents. “The inevitability of time,” Q had said when they first met. After M, after Skyfall—after watching his past quite literally crumble and burn to the ground, Bond felt the crushing weight of time more than ever. So if his inevitable, messy end was waiting for him, what was wrong with taking a little comfort where he could find it in the meantime?

And if that comfort took the form of an infuriating, cocksure genius, that was fine. Q was quiet, inexorable. Steady. He was there for every mission, there when Bond returned, there even when he wasn’t there; he was in Bond’s earpiece, in the tracker under his skin, in his watch, in the money clip in his pocket. Steady was dangerous for a man whose job it was to be so adaptable, but Bond craved that familiar face, that blink of recognition every time he came back. And if every time those fever-bright green eyes fixed on his he found himself thinking more and more of _home_ , well, that was something James was choosing to ignore.

“Can anyone tell me why the surveillance footage I asked for 10 minutes ago is still not in my hand?” Bond heard Q snap peevishly at the staff members in his immediate vicinity. They scattered like rats and bustled about to try to escape from Q’s annoyed glare.

Bond pushed off the back wall and sauntered casually to the quartermaster’s desk. “Hard day at the office?”

Bond saw the muscles in Q’s back tighten and his head slump forward as he let out the weariest of sighs. “Of course. Just got back and you have nothing better to do than torment me right now. I’m too busy to entertain you today, 007. You can return your equipment later.”

“Ah, don’t sell yourself short. You’re always entertaining, even when you don’t mean to be, Q,” Bond smirked.

Q resolutely ignored the heat he could feel in Bond’s stare, although he could feel his cheeks pinking slightly under the agent’s scrutiny. Instead of meeting Bond’s gaze, Q continued to type algorithms into his open coding program. “Mm, I’ll be sure to add that to my résumé under special skills. I know the chances are slim that you’ll actually listen to me, considering that no one on my entire bloody staff seems to be listening today, but I’m trying to clean up an international incident, so do kindly piss off while I regain control of the situation.”

A muted flare of heat rippled in Bond’s gut at Q’s words, and he had an idea. Leaning close to Q, but not close enough to garner suspicion from the prying eyes of Q’s staff, Bond faintly spoke into Q’s ear. “As you wish.”

Ever the professional, Q did not watch Bond as he walked away.

***

Q opened the door to his flat and paused, tasting the air. 007 was here. There was an almost imperceptible charge in the air whenever Bond was near, like the bitter tang of ozone.

The flat was dark and silent. Q put his bag down and walked hesitantly down the hall to the bedroom, not quite knowing what he would find. He pushed open the door and the world tipped on its axis.

007 was kneeling in the middle of Q’s bed, completely nude. He was facing away from the door, and the muscles in his shoulders and back were tense and trembling because his hands were gathered at the small of his back, palms up. The hard muscles straining in Bond’s arms led Q’s eyes downward to the focus of this tableau—a pair of shining steel handcuffs encircling Bond’s wrists.

“What…is this?” Q breathed. He was afraid that if he moved, the spell would be broken and Bond would dissolve into the fragments of a dream Q could swear he’d had before.

“You had a bad day at the office. Thought you could use a little unwinding.” Bond didn’t look at Q, just spoke lowly into the darkness of the room. Q was hypnotised by the soft ripple of the muscles in Bond’s shoulders and back when he spoke.

“And this is how you try to relax me?”

At this, Bond looked over his shoulder at Q still standing in the doorway. “Well I wasn’t going to rub your feet.”

Q crossed to the bed and trailed one hand from the nape of Bond’s neck all the way down to the glinting steel chain between his wrists. He pulled on the chain experimentally, drawing Bond’s arms taut. The agent hissed between his teeth at the stretch, and Q felt a sharp twist in his groin at the sound.

“How long have you been like this?” Q whispered, still toying with the silver chain.

Bond grunted. “About an hour or so. I told you, you shouldn’t work so late, Q.”

Q leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the ridge at the top of the agent’s spine, inhaling the musky scent of Bond that was gathered in the soft skin at the edge of his hairline.

“So you just decided this was what I wanted,” Q murmured into Bond’s ear. “How presumptuous, 007.”

Bond jerked his head at that and craned his neck to look at Q, but winced at the strain on his overtaxed muscles. “So you’re saying I was wrong?”

“I’m saying you don’t get to decide what I want. If we’re going to do this…” Q pulled the chain again, harder, so that Bond was forced to lean back in order to prevent overbalancing. Q let his other hand lightly graze the trembling muscles of Bond’s stomach as he tensed to hold himself upright. Bond turned his head to the left as Q leaned against him and kissed him with a wet slide of tongue and a sharp nip of teeth. When he broke the kiss, Bond’s eyes were wide with surprise. “…We’re going to do it my way.”

Bond felt his cock beginning to thicken at the dark promise in Q’s words. There was something delicious about the susurration of Q’s cardigan against the skin of his back as the quartermaster lathed a wet trail of scorching kisses to the back of his neck, scraping his teeth against Bond’s hairline, the edge of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder. All the while he continued to trail his fingertips up and down the scarred and battle-broken lines of 007’s stomach and chest. This only lasted for a few moments, though, and Bond could tell that Q was merely warming up. After Q sucked a particularly stinging bruise onto the paper-thin skin just under Bond’s ear, he asked calmly, and in his most professional voice, “Where is the key, 007?”

Bond paused before answering. Maybe the handcuffs had been too much. He had thought it would be a safe way to allow Q the feeling of control that he was always seeking at the office without giving up too much of his own power. It’s not as if Bond couldn't slip the cuffs if he wanted, or overpower Q. And he was certainly no stranger to being restrained. But this was about Q, so if he didn’t want to take what Bond was offering, he would respect it.

“In the top drawer of the nightstand. Quartermaster.” The last word came out with more bite than Bond intended, but he was a trifle disappointed. In these last few months, he had so enjoyed it when Q was a bit more forceful with him.

Q went to the nightstand and got the key, leaving a rush of cool air in his wake that converged on Bond’s flushed skin. He took his glasses off and laid them in their proper resting place on the nightstand. Then he came back to the bed and traced his index finger along the red lines where the handcuffs bit into the skin of Bond’s wrists, but did not yet unlock the cuffs. Bond heard something thump on the bed and realized it was the bottle of lube from the nightstand, along with a condom. “Do you trust me?” Q asked, barely above a whisper, but surprisingly even given how his blood was rushing under his skin. Bond snorted softly, “Well I wouldn’t be very bloody good at my job if I didn’t, would I?”

Q prickled at the mockery. “No. I’m not joking. Do you trust me?”

Bond wished he could see Q’s face, but the younger man stood behind him, still brushing the cold steel of the handcuffs and the warm skin of his wrists with one fingertip.

“Yes,” Bond said lowly. “Of course I do.”

“Good.” Q unlocked the cuffs, but when Bond moved to bring his hands in front of him, Q grabbed his right wrist and clicked the steel circle shut again, leaving only his left hand free. “On your back.”

Bond laid down on the bed, his pulse quickening just a bit. This was new, and new was _good_. Q began undressing methodically, his eyes raking over 007’s supine form. “Put your hands over your head—grip the rails.” Bond’s mouth suddenly went dry, and he let out a shaky breath as he did as he was told. Q’s cardigan and vest hit the floor, and his trousers soon followed. When Q pulled his pants off to reveal the elegant curve of his cock, already hard, Bond’s fingers twitched, aching to touch, but he kept ahold of the thin metal bars of the headboard.

When he was finally nude, Q crawled up Bond’s body, nuzzling and ghosting humid breaths over the hard lines of Bond’s knees, along his inner thighs, and tracing the V of his outer obliques with his tongue. When Bond brought his uncuffed hand down to run his fingers through Q’s mop of dark hair, Q stopped the actions of his talented mouth and looked up at Bond with one raised eyebrow. Bond swallowed with a dry click and put his hand back on the rails.

Q inched up and flattened himself against Bond, chest to chest, so that as much of his skin was in contact with Bond’s as possible. He reached his arms up to cover Bond’s, stroking his forearms lightly, and then kissed Bond slowly, licking against the seam of his lips and moaning when Bond opened to him. With each sweep of his tongue, Q rolled his hips, undulating against Bond and reveling in the velvety sweetness of skin against skin. Q was trying to get the angle just right and—ah, there was the delicious spark when his cock lined up perfectly against 007’s, and Q took that opportunity to slide his hand up to the dangling chain of the handcuffs and loop it around the rails to encircle Bond’s left wrist again.

Bond grunted in surprise, but was quickly distracted by Q’s hands in his hair, pulling his head back so that the younger man could lick a hot stripe along the column of Bond’s throat and then suck bruisingly where his neck met his shoulder.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Q promised in his even, calm quartermaster voice. Bond’s hips jerked involuntarily at the obscenity, and his eyes fluttered shut as their erections ground together again. Sliding a hand down to cup Bond’s cheek, Q forced the agent to look him in the eye.

“Pay attention, 007.” Q’s voice slid into a lower register, but his words still came out clipped and posh, and it should not have been seductive in the least, but the combination of that steady voice in his ear and the sensations dancing across his skin was leaving Bond breathless. “I’m going to fuck you. But I’m going to take you apart first.” Bond would have scoffed if he hadn’t known just what a mistake it was to underestimate the young genius currently laying on top of him. “I’m going to make you beg for it. Beg to be filled by my cock, until you come, gasping, all over yourself.”

Yes, god, how he wanted that. Bond shuddered at Q’s words, and he pulled uselessly at the handcuffs, letting out a frustrated growl at being unable to touch the lithe lines of Q’s body. Q’s eyes glinted at the effect he was already having on Bond, and he continued, nibbling on Bond’s earlobe and whispering in his ear. “But how should I prepare you first? Should I use my fingers? Oh, you love it when I stretch you open for me, don’t you? Or maybe my tongue would be better?”

Bond huffed out a breath as if he’d been punched and rolled his hips again, desperately seeking friction against his prick, which had grown impossibly harder. Never one to make things easy, Q slid so that he was lying on his side, flush against Bond, leaving the agent with nothing to grind against.

“Enough teasing. Just fucking get on with it, Q,” Bond gritted.

Q tsked softly at him. “Oh, 007. This game was your idea. You offered me control, and I’m taking it. Now remember—the sooner you beg for me, the sooner you’ll get what you want. We’ll start slow.”

Drawing a map down Bond’s body with his lips and tongue, Q proceeded to kiss every bruise, every scar on Bond’s skin. He took his time, finally getting the opportunity to catalogue them all. Here, from a knife fight in Uzbekistan. There, from shrapnel outside Qatar. The tangle of reaching lines that was left from the bullet in Turkey—a physical manifestation that hid so much more twisted wreckage below the surface. Q had drawn this map in his head a thousand times before he had ever touched Bond like this, but every time he was faced with the real thing in front of him, he felt the need to worship. Each brush of lips was a gift of thanks to Bond’s body for enduring so much and surviving all of it. He couldn’t believe that he had been given this offering of Bond’s surrender, and he fully intended to take advantage of the opportunity.

Bond was doing his best to maintain his composure, not wanting to let Q win so easily, but the intimacy of Q’s touch was becoming overwhelming. He pulled at the handcuffs and let the sting in his wrists keep him grounded. He knew that he could easily snap the metal rails and break free, but giving the control over freely to Q was a surprisingly heady feeling. God, the way this cocky little shit could make him feel—it was too much to consider right now. The only sound in the room was Bond’s quiet breathing and the whisper of lips dragging across flushed skin.

Q slid down to lay on his belly between Bond’s parted legs and left lingering kisses on the sensitive skin of Bond’s inner thighs. Then he used his sure and steady fingers to stroke up Bond’s shaft, light, teasing touches that were going to drive the agent mad. Q sucked one of Bond’s testicles in his mouth gently, and caressed it with the flat of his tongue. Bond moaned, and Q responded to the encouragement by dragging the point of his tongue across Bond’s perineum and the very edge of his puckered hole.

Spreading Bond’s thighs apart and up so his feet were planted on the bed, Q used his fingers to spread Bond’s cheeks and expose the tight ring of muscle in the center of him. He curled his tongue so that it circled just around the outer edge of Bond’s hole, teasing with small flicks until Bond was panting softly. Then he used the flat of his tongue to paint broad strokes, delighting in the flutter he could feel against his tongue each time he passed over 007’s entrance. When Q’s pointed tongue began circling again, opening Bond up, the older man moaned and pulled against the steel at his wrists, wanting to press Q closer and drag him away all that the same time. Bond could actually feel Q’s lips stretch into a grin as he pressed in deeper, worming his tongue inside of him and curling it in and out. Flares of pleasure were emanating from his very center, as Q’s lips sucked against him in an obscene kiss, and then Bond felt strong fingers curling around his neglected cock and stroking firmly.

“Fuck! Oh god, fuck, Q, Jesus…” Bond didn’t care that he sounded desperate. The combination of Q’s sure hand and his wicked tongue was too much, and he couldn't do anything about it. He was trapped between steel and flesh and it was going to destroy him from the inside out. Q gripped the base of Bond’s cock to ensure that he didn’t come too soon, and Bond let out a choked moan. Q raised his head from between Bond’s thighs, red lips glistening with spit.

“Well, that’s a good start, but I wouldn't call that begging.” Still gripping the base, Q swallowed Bond’s cock into the dark, wet heat of his mouth while he used his other hand to push a fingertip inside Bond’s slick, puffy hole.

“God, more, I need more” Bond choked out. Hollowing his cheeks, Q sucked steadily up Bond’s length, then drew off with a filthy, wet sound. “Better.” He then removed his teasing, probing finger from Bond’s arse and grabbed the lube, quickly slicking up his first two fingers. Q’s eyes never leaving Bond’s, the quartermaster brought his lubed fingers to slip-slide around Bond’s entrance, easing in with both fingers very carefully.

Q made an approving noise. “Oh, you’re so wet and open for me already. Look at how nice I’ve slicked you up with my mouth. Do you like it when I use my lips and my tongue to spread you wide and open so I can fuck you better?” His fingers were rocking gently in and out, easing inside and feeling the tight clutching of Bond’s internal muscles.

“Answer me.” Q’s voice was steady and even and undeniable, although he did sound slightly winded.

“Yes,” Bond snarled. “Jesus, Q, you weren’t kidding, oh, more, I can take it.”

Q trailed soft kisses up the underside of his cock, now leaking precome, as he added a third lubed finger. He curled his fingers, searching, and Bond arched off the bed as Q grazed his prostate. Bond’s arms were trembling with tension, his wrists ached, and he felt like his nerve endings were made of glittering shards of glass. Q continued to stroke and curl his fingers inside Bond while his other hand pressed into Bond’s hipbone hard enough to bruise. The warring sensations were racing through him and he couldn’t take it any more.

“Please, goddammit, just fuck me already, please Q, fuuuck,” Bond groaned.

Removing his fingers with a calculated twist that caused Bond to cry out again, Q grabbed the condom and quickly sheathed his achingly hard cock. Slicking himself with more lube, Q curled over Bond and murmured, “As you wish.”

Pushing Bond’s knees up nearly to his shoulders, Q slid into Bond with one smooth thrust. The sound that escaped both of them was primal, and Q wasted no time settling into a punishing rhythm. Sweat was gathering at Q’s temples and his eyes were glittering darkly as he snapped his hips ruthlessly into Bond’s slick and clenching heat. Every third thrust or so, he would zero in on Bond’s prostate, wrenching harsh cries from the agent’s throat.

“I want. To see. You come. Like this,” Q panted. “Untouched. Just from my cock.” Q braced himself on his hands, bracketing Bond’s ribs and leaned down to kiss him. It was all teeth and tongue, and Bond could taste the musky flavor of himself on Q’s lips as Q continued to drive into him. “Come for me, Bond,” Q panted into his mouth, and then rested his forehead against Bond’s, gazing into his eyes. “Come for me.”

Everything felt like he was twisting and shattering from the inside out as Bond felt his orgasm rip through him, and he roared as he painted his release in white streaks across his chest and stomach. Q continued to thrust once, twice, three times, and then he stiffened and buried himself impossibly deeper into Bond as he came with a shout.

***

Sleep was never a problem for Q. He tended to work until he exhausted himself, then fall into a coma-like state for 12 hours or so, and he’d be good for the next few days.

But now he couldn’t sleep.

Bond was supposed to return from Buenos Aires hours ago. Q had been fiddling with various projects he’d been working on, pretending that he wasn’t waiting to see 007 before going home. He knew Bond had been on the flight home, and his transponder said he’d arrived in London, but Q hadn’t yet seen him at MI6, which was unusual.

Finally, after 3 hours, Q mentioned it to Eve offhandedly. “He debriefed with Mallory a little while ago. Looked like shit. I told him to go home and sleep it off,” Eve told him. She saw through his attempts to act casual immediately. “Maybe you should do the same,” she advised with a warm, pitying smile.

So Q had gone home, turned the kettle on, watched crap telly, coded a new safety protocol for the com system he was working on, and then gone to bed to toss and turn restlessly. It’s not that he expected Bond to immediately come see him when he returned from a mission. But today’s had ended badly, with civilian casualties and an unrecovered dossier. Bond usually came by to take out his frustration and leftover adrenaline after missions like that.

Q’s job was to watch, to hear, to observe Bond and be everything he needed to make it through a mission. And yet, here he was, waiting, anxious. It seemed that somehow, he had become the one who relied on Bond to anchor him through the day, rather than the other way round. Shit. Just as he was resigning himself to making another cup of tea and working on the com system some more, he heard a soft knock on his flat door.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when he opened the door, but he still was. Bond stood there, the left side of his face swollen and purple. He was favoring his right leg. His dark blue wool suit had spots of blood and ash on it, and the seam of one shoulder was slightly torn. Q blinked at him a few times, then wordlessly stepped back so that Bond could enter the flat.

“Let’s just…can we just sleep tonight?” Bond asked him, his voice shredded and gravelly. He glanced at Q to judge his reaction.

Q nodded, still saying nothing. He gently took Bond’s jacket off and draped it across the back of a chair. When Q reached up to undo the buttons of Bond’s shirt, the agent trapped the quartermaster’s hands in his, and leaned down to kiss them reverently. Q’s breath caught, and panic fluttered in his chest. Emotions were rising that he could not name, and he was terrified of what might happen if he tried. He pushed them down, locked them away. Right now, he had a job to do, and he was excellent at his job.

Slipping his hands out of Bond’s, he ducked under Bond’s good arm to help support him as they made their way to the bedroom. After undressing him and wiping his bruised face with a warm flannel, Q lay down next to Bond and put his head on Bond’s chest. His last thought before he drifted almost immediately off to sleep was that this distance he was so desperately trying to keep between them was only as wide as the gap between Bond’s heartbeats. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am greatly indebted to my BFFF (Best Fangirl Friend Forever), the wonderful chemicaldefect (you should go read all of her Johnlock and Richard Armitage/Aidan Turner RPF--for reals, it's amazing). She wanted to see handcuffs, so I gave her handcuffs. She also prompted the image of Q shoving Bond down on the couch and having his way with him, and maybe riding him, and that's an image that was just too pretty to pass up. [And that last one she sent me while we were at WORK. Some people are so unprofessional :P]
> 
> More is on the way. A storm of feelings is coming.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They circled around each other. Bond watched Q work, and if Bond touched anything, Q scolded and fussed. Q demonstrated prototypes, and Bond complained about impracticality or stinginess. They always started out fine—small smiles, privately shared glances, gentle mockery. But what started out as warm teasing always became brittle and cutting. The tension between them built until it snapped every few days.
> 
> When the banter became sharper, when the words started to sting, they both knew later that night they would find each other in the dark and take out all of their frustrations, all of their uncertainty. They did not speak of the growing presence lingering around the edges of their moments together. They did not speak of falling, or dependence, or endings, or finality. Some nights, they did not speak at all.
> 
> In those moments in the dark, they listened to each other’s heartbeats and tried to hear all of the words that were left unsaid.
> 
>  
> 
> Wherein things grow tense until they reach a turning point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was beta'd by the wonderful chemicaldefect, so any mistakes remaining are all mine.

It ended in the dark.

***

Q had been keeping himself busy for two weeks. After Bond had shown up that night, bruised and broken and tired, Q had decided to take a step back. His reaction to Bond’s appearing at the flat that night had frightened him. Being responsible for 007 in the field was one thing, but being responsible for James Bond…that was a responsibility that Q did not think anyone was capable of handling. Q avoided relationships when he could because of their inherent complications, and because his work had always fulfilled him more than any person ever could. And yet. Knowing that the agent had come to him, had shown that vulnerability around Q made his throat constrict with an emotion that he could not place. It was all too much. James Bond was a code that could only be decrypted by a few people in the world, and if Q tried his hand at it, he did not know which prospect would be less dangerous—failing, or succeeding.

It was easier to shut it all down now, to walk away. It was only in the dark, when he was just on the verge of sleep that he allowed himself to consider what it was that scared him so about their arrangement. It was supposed to be just sex, but then Q remembered the broken timbre of Bond’s voice after the first time they had been together, asking, “Where do I go now, Q?” He wanted so badly to have an answer to that question, and the memory of Bond’s hands on his skin and that question on his lips made Q tremble and want to crawl inside himself to get away from the overwhelming _need_ he felt to protect Bond. It was only in the dark that Q realized that the longest moments of his life were the ones when he was waiting to hear Bond’s voice in his ear, to hear the low rumble of _yes. I got it. I made it out._

_I’m safe._

There had been so many precautions taken, so many prudent measures in place to prevent anything like this happening, but Bond kept coming back, and Q kept letting him in. Q might not have told Bond his real name but that didn’t mean that he hadn’t revealed himself to the agent, bit by bit. It was stupid to think that secreting that part of himself away would protect him. He should have been smarter than that.

So rather than think about it anymore, he retreated. He threw himself into his work, locking himself in his office and tweaking, modifying, and in some cases inventing all manner of cruelly clever weapons for the agents under his charge. Bond was around, but he had stopped trying to pester Q after the third day of his self-isolation. Q did not know if he was relieved or disappointed at that. Bond had gone to Mexico City and Q had begged off handling the assignment, claiming that he was working with delicate chemical compounds in the middle of a time-sensitive experiment.

The mission had gone poorly.

***

Bond did not knock or otherwise announce himself. He waited until it was time for one of Q’s assistants to bring him tea and when Q opened the door for her, Bond plucked the cup from her hands and edged his way into Q’s office with a clipped, “That will be all.”

Trying to avoid disturbing the half-soldered circuit boards strewn across Q’s desk, Bond set the cup down and then turned to lean calmly against the edge of the desk as if he had always been a part of the office’s décor.

Q eyed him warily but did not move from his position by the door. He locked it just in case this turned ugly. He didn’t want his underlings to walk in on their boss having a domestic at work.

They faced each other in silence for a little while. Q was determined not to fidget, because if he revealed any sort of awkwardness, Bond would be able to see the tempest raging inside of his head over their arrangement. He merely gazed back at 007 and tried to anticipate the possible routes that this conversation would take.

“Could have used you in Mexico City,” Bond drawled. It was casual to the point of laziness, but Q felt the underlying accusation like a brand on his skin, and fought the flush that he felt rising to his cheeks.

“I was working on some very delicate chemical compounds, and at the time I couldn’t leave the reac—”

“You’re avoiding me.” It was not a question. Bond picked up one of the circuit boards on Q’s desk and began twirling it in his fingers idly.

“I'm not. I’ve just been busy and I’m sorry I couldn’t be your handler on the Mexico City assignment but—” Bond had now begun tossing the circuit board from hand to hand, “—as I said, I was in the middle of some fragile—oh, for God’s sake, would you put that down, 007?”

Q reached for the circuit board to pluck it from Bond’s hands, but the agent was quicker and held the board behind his back. Q’s instinct to protect the circuits he’d spent the last 5 hours re-wiring meant he couldn’t see the obvious trap before it was too late. He reached around Bond to grab the board and 007 snaked his other arm around Q’s waist to draw him tight up against his body, pinning him in place. Q stopped struggling immediately, realising that friction in this position would only cause further problems. Bond gently placed the board back on the desk to ease Q’s anxiety and then looked at the man he had captured.

Since the moment of their confrontation in the server room, Bond knew that Q was strong. But he was also breakable, and Bond was trained to find pressure points. This understanding they had was fragile and uncertain, based in the need to feel skin on skin. When brains and blood and hearts got involved—that was where Bond knew he would only disappoint, and he also knew that asking for what lay beneath his quartermaster’s skin was too much, more than he deserved. He knew he was pushing too hard. This was why he realized that showing up at Q’s flat to sleep had been a mistake, but it was one he was willing to apologize for now if it meant he could once more hear the beautiful, broken sounds that slipped from Q’s lips when he was at the mercy of Bond’s hands.

Bond gazed levelly at Q, still standing motionless and pressed up against Bond in the snare of the agent’s arm around his waist. Q was thrumming, already breathing quicker at the captivity, but he made no move to escape. If Q said no, if he protested—Bond resolved that he would walk away.

So he would do everything he could to prevent Q from saying no.

Though Q’s body was raging, his eyes were calm, focused on Bond’s mouth. 007 very gradually tilted his head and drew closer to brush a kiss along the shelf of Q’s jaw. Bond’s movements were soft and slow, like flowing water, so as not to break the fine-spun trance Q was in. “I missed…working with you,” Bond murmured into Q’s ear as he continued to skim kisses just along his neck, the lightest contact of lips on flushed skin.

“You’re a decent enough quartermaster,” Bond continued. Q made a tiny noise of indignant protest that died as soon as Bond ghosted a hot breath onto the thin skin stretched over Q’s pulse point. “And for the sake of queen and country, I think we should continue our working relationship.” Q huffed a laugh at the backhanded flattery, and he could feel Bond’s grin against his collarbone. Bond sucked a small bruise to the left of the hollow of Q’s throat and the young man’s hips bucked forward of their own volition.

“Our working relationship,” Q echoed, his voice sounding clumsy in his ears.

“Yes. Strictly professional,” Bond promised as his hand slid up underneath the hem of Q’s cardigan to trail his fingertips over the lovely dimples on either side of Q’s spine. The last time Bond had fucked Q, before he breached the young man’s body, he had licked the sweat that had gathered into those gracefully curved indentations. Now, Q shuddered at the memory, and Bond could feel him growing harder against his thigh.

Bond’s other hand went to Q’s belt to deftly undo the clasp, and he sucked Q’s earlobe lightly, nipping playfully. He murmured, “No more unexpected late night visits. If that’s what you want.” He then leaned back to look at Q with the slightest crease between his eyebrows, asking the question he hadn’t voiced.

“Shut up, 007,” Q whispered and pulled him into a fierce kiss. He was already ablaze from Bond’s teasing touches and right now he just needed not to think anymore. Bond was more than able to accommodate him, licking into Q’s mouth and sucking Q’s lower lip between his teeth, all the while shoving the younger man’s trousers and pants down to his knees.

As Bond curled his strong, calloused hand around Q’s hard length, Q’s hands scrabbled to find purchase on the back of Bond’s neck, and he shuddered at Bond’s firm, practiced touch. “Ohh, fuck,” Q half-gasped against Bond’s lips as the agent began to stroke him languidly. Q tried desperately not to think of the power behind those hands—those hands that took life and saved life in equal measure. When Bond swiped his thumb over the slit of Q’s prick, already beginning to leak precome, he cried out sharply, then buried his face into the crook of Bond’s neck. “We have to stay quiet. Don’t want the minions to hear,” he panted against Bond’s skin.

Bond grinned wickedly and with the hand not on Q’s cock, he reached up to tangle his fingers in Q’s hair. He loved this ridiculous mop of black silk, loved the feel of it against his palms, his lips. He also loved the sounds he knew he could make Q produce when he tugged on that hair just right.

Q hummed in pleasure and kissed Bond breathless, sucking his tongue and moaning wantonly as Bond massaged his scalp and pulled lightly on the dark strands curled around his fingers. The sounds were vibrating through Bond’s nerve endings, wrapping him in an arousal so strong it was almost painful. Noticing the quickening of Bond’s breathing, Q stepped back slightly to divest the agent of his trousers, freeing his thick, flushed cock. Bond pulled Q’s hips flush against his, lining their cocks up perfectly. With his broad hand he began to stroke both of their lengths in tandem in a luscious slide of flesh against flesh.

“God, I needed this,” Bond groaned against Q’s mouth. “Needed you.”

As Bond stroked them together, Q whimpered and kissed Bond desperately, as if he couldn’t get close enough to Bond’s touch—as if he wanted to live in Bond’s skin. The kiss turned into a war for dominance, a tangle of tongues and teeth, and Q yelped in surprise when Bond suddenly pivoted them around so that Q was the one pressed against the desk. Bond ceased stroking them and dug in his jacket pocket for the condom and one of the packets of lube that he always had on him. A hazard of the trade, as it were.

Bond kissed Q again, ravenous and demanding, then turned Q around to bend him over the desk. Q tried to move some of the clutter off his desk to prevent soldering irons and circuit boards pressing into his chest and belly, then decided he didn’t care because Bond had slicked up his fingers and began to circle a probing fingertip around Q’s quivering entrance. As he pushed one finger in gently, Bond rucked up Q’s cardigan to expose those captivating dimples at the small of his back. He kissed the hollows there worshipfully as he drew his finger in and out of Q’s hole slowly.

“More, please more,” Q whispered, and Bond added a second finger, twisting and scissoring Q open.

“You’re so tight, Q,” Bond sighed as Q arched into Bond’s touch, seeking to push Bond’s fingers deeper inside. When 007 curled his fingers just right and grazed his prostate, Q let out a sharp cry and stuffed his fist into his mouth to stifle the sound. “No, no, don’t try to hide it,” Bond growled as he added a third finger to stroke against Q’s slick, grasping inner muscles. “I love the noises you make when I’m inside you, when you’re desperate for me. I’ve been waiting for this for weeks, Q, and I’m going to make a fucking _mess_ of you,” Bond promised as he gripped Q’s hip possessively for leverage.

Q let out a breathy whine at Bond’s words and clenched down on the fingers inside him, shuddering. “Ohh,” Q sighed, turning to look at Bond, eyes glittering darkly. “I really think you had better try.”

Bond removed his fingers immediately, and had the condom rolled on in seconds. He hadn’t realized how far gone he really was until this moment. Seeing Q spread open and wanting but still challenging him drove Bond insane with the need to demand, to mark—to _claim._ He slicked himself with more lube, then slid inside Q with one smooth thrust. Q cried out softly and buried his face into the crook of his elbow to stifle the sound, but Bond was having none of that. He snapped his hips ruthlessly to hear Q’s brittle sounds of pleasure, leaning over Q’s back to graze his teeth on the back of Q’s neck.

Sprawling over the debris on his desk, Q was trying to gain more leverage to push back against Bond’s punishing thrusts, but he was hobbled by his trousers around his ankles. He settled for arching his back more and biting his lip hard enough to draw blood as the new angle allowed 007’s cock to hit his prostate unerringly. Bond reached up to pull Q’s head back by his hair, and Q groaned as each tug on his scalp matched the roll of Bond’s hips. The rhythm had changed and now, instead of the sharp buck of Bond’s hips, Q felt the slow drag of Bond’s cock filling him in waves.

Then Bond pulled back just enough so that only the head of his prick was stretching Q’s entrance, and he rocked forward and back, building a sweet aching tension inside of Q that was going to make him scream. The quartermaster tried to push back to make Bond move, to gain more friction, to do _anything_ to counter the tight pleasure that was becoming so intense it set his teeth on edge. Bond kept one hand in Q’s hair, exposing the line of his throat, and the other hand reached around the curve of Q’s hip to stroke the younger man’s painfully hard erection.

Q was coming apart, pressed against the hard lines of the desk and the harder lines of Bond’s body, his glasses askew and his mouth open, gasping. He was pinned in between the unstoppable force of Bond’s thrusts and the immovable object of Bond’s hand on his cock, pumping in time with each slow and shallow glide of Bond’s hips.

“Oh God, I’m gon—fuck, Bond, harder, please,” Q nearly sobbed, and it sounded like a prayer. Bond’s hand sped up on Q’s cock, sliding the foreskin across the glans and massaging the fraenulum before lightly twisting up and back down again, and he began to thrust into Q’s gripping heat again in earnest. The agent leaned over Q’s back again and licked a hot stripe along side of Q’s neck, punctuating it by hissing into Q’s ear, “I’ve been thinking about fucking you on this desk since the day I met you,” and then Q was coming with a strangled shout, spilling on Bond’s hand and the front of his desk. Bond felt the contractions pulsing deep inside Q and stroked him through the rest of his orgasm, thighs trembling with the exertion of the position and his need to come. After catching his breath, Q contorted awkwardly to kiss Bond, a sloppy smear of lips and tongue and then he nodded and said, “Take it, take what you need.”

Bond could hold back no more and began fucking Q again, lifting his hips off the desk to get the friction right where he needed it and it only took a minute or two of grinding into Q before Bond felt his climax slam into him. He curled on top of Q’s back as his body convulsed in pleasure and buried his face against Q’s shoulder.

Q couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard Bond whisper, “Oh, Q,” as he regained his breath. Q told himself that the way his own pulse stuttered was because of an aftershock from his climax and nothing more.

After awkwardly untangling themselves, both men got dressed in silence. Bond proffered a handkerchief for Q to wipe the front of his desk down, and Q took it, his cheeks burning. He had just been very thoroughly fucked on his own desk. How was Bond able to make him this reckless? He was beginning to wonder if Bond’s defiant disregard for danger was transferrable through touch.

“Let’s not do that again,” Q said as he turned to return the handkerchief. Bond’s eyes flashed, too quickly for Q to read, and the agent raised an eyebrow. “Which part?”

“The part where I have bruises on my ribs from soldering irons and circuit boards. Perhaps a bed next time?” Q brushed the lapels of Bond’s suit jacket with his fingertips lightly, focusing on smoothing out the wool rather than looking Bond in the eye.

Bond paused before answering. So this was to continue. He felt a surge of something dark and proud in his gut at knowing he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t resist these fevered encounters. It may never become anything more than this, but Bond was used to the few pleasures in his life being short-lived, and he knew he was already living on borrowed time with this one. He could rein his emotions in to make this work. Bond ducked his head to kiss Q, a quick nip of teeth and a flash of tongue, and then walked towards the door. “No promises. See you around, Q,” he called behind him as he opened the door to leave.

Just before the door closed, Q heard Bond tell his assistant, “Fetch him another cup of tea. That one’s gone cold.”

***

And with that, a routine began. Missions continued. Bond pulled triggers. Q designed better triggers to be pulled.

They circled around each other. Bond watched Q work, and if Bond touched anything, Q scolded and fussed. Q demonstrated prototypes, and Bond complained about impracticality or stinginess. They always started out fine—small smiles, privately shared glances, gentle mockery. But what started out as warm teasing always became brittle and cutting. The tension between them built until it snapped every few days.

When the banter became sharper, when the words started to sting, they both knew later that night they would find each other in the dark and take out all of their frustrations, all of their uncertainty. They did not speak of the growing presence lingering around the edges of their moments together. They did not speak of falling, or dependence, or endings, or finality. Some nights, they did not speak at all.

In those moments in the dark, they listened to each other’s heartbeats and tried to hear all of the words that were left unsaid.

***

“Why does it have to be you?” Bond ran his fingers through Q’s hair absently while Q dragged his fingertips to and fro across the planes of Bond’s chest. It had been a lazy Saturday after a particularly stressful mission in Cairo and two vigorous rounds of sex. For the first time since their brief hiatus a few months ago, Q hadn’t kicked Bond out and had allowed 007 to sleep there. Q was regretting the decision now, as Bond was now like a large, sleepy jungle cat that Q feared would take up permanent residence in his bed after he left for Belarus later that day.

Q looked up at Bond and nuzzled under 007’s jaw, replying, “Because I built this surveillance system and because you know as well as I do that 005 can’t be trusted to operate such a sensitive mission without me there to also build the network for him.”

Bond huffed grumpily. “You know this syndicate is serious. Karzarov doesn’t leave witnesses. Do you think 005 is the right man for the job?” He wasn’t used to feeling worried about someone, and the tight clench he felt in his belly about this mission was unsettling. So much for reining in his emotions.

“Oh, it is adorable when you get jealous, but I believe you’re now benched after that incident at the Egyptian consulate.”

“Which was your fault.”

Q gave Bond an ineffectual jab in the ribs. “I _showed_ you three times how to use that recording device.”

“Well you shouldn’t be so distracting in the office. With this ridiculous hair…” Bond massaged Q’s scalp slowly, letting the heat from his hands seep into Q’s nerves. Q purred contentedly and leaned up to kiss Bond. He nipped at the agent’s lips, teasing. “You’ve been trained to withstand torture, and you can’t listen for ten minutes when I’m talking? I might have to cut this hair off just to get you to focus.”

“Don’t you dare.” Bond tugged on the strands lightly, and Q grinned. “It’s not just the hair,” Bond said quietly. “It’s all these bits of you that I get to touch. Like the nape of your neck.” Bond pressed his fingers there and rubbed small circles into the warm skin. He wished he could permanently embed his fingerprints with the feeling of Q’s skin under his hands, this intoxicating shivery smooth drag.

The contact spread a pleasant warmth bone deep into Q, and he became pliant under the sure and steady strength of Bond’s hands. He was going to miss his flight at this rate.

Bond pressed a kiss to the top of Q’s head, inhaling the clean, sleepy-warm scent of his scalp. Q was floating, drifting into the bliss of Bond’s hands.

“Tell me your real name,” Bond murmured into the thicket of Q’s hair. He braced himself, knowing that whatever answer Q gave, Bond would end up aching.

Q clawed his way back to consciousness and pulled his head away from Bond’s chest to look at him. Bond looked at him steadily, then brought his hand back to cup Q’s cheek and rub his thumb along the line of his jaw.

“Bond…” Q whispered, and it was admonishing. Warning. Pleading.

“You know my real name,” Bond said lowly.

“I know I do.”

“And yet you never call me James.”

Q sighed wearily, pushing up to a sitting position with his back to Bond. “I know that, too.”

Reaching for his glasses on the nightstand, Q stiffened when Bond sat up too, curling an arm around Q’s stomach to draw him closer while Bond pressed his forehead against Q’s bare back. He relaxed a fraction when Bond kissed the patch of skin over where Q’s heart was thudding, feather light.

“I’m tired, Q,” he whispered against the skin under his lips.

Q tilted his head back and closed his eyes, willing all the secret desires of his heart to stay locked in the dark. He could choose to release them in this moment. He could choose to give Bond the chance to prove him wrong. They fit together perfectly in so many ways, but Q knew that nobody could escape the collateral damage when all the shattered pieces of James Bond were allowed to get too close. It was already happening; it happened every time they were inside each other, when Q swore Bond could trace the sounds of his unspoken name on his skin like Braille.

Q opened his mouth to speak and then swallowed the words back down. Instead he said, “So go back to sleep.”

“Don’t be stupid. It doesn’t look good on you.” Bond’s voice was gravel mixed with fine whisky, and it couldn’t quite mask the surprised pain that flared in his gut at Q’s brush off.

Q wrestled out of Bond’s hold on him and went to the wardrobe to get dressed. He kept his back to Bond as he said quietly, “Then don’t ask me for things you know I can’t give.”

Bond’s laugh was the dry rustle of leaves before a storm. “Fine, you don’t want to tell me your name, fine. But you could at least call me James. Christ, I feel like it’s always _work_ with you.” He reclined back on the bed, watching Q get dressed, and he hated how raw, how exposed he felt in contrast. Bond knew he was pushing too hard, and he knew he should stop, but, unsurprisingly, he felt his desires getting in the way of his impulse control.

“I’m not a mark. You don’t have to seduce me with the ‘Call me James’ line.” Q dragged his suitcase out from the bottom of the wardrobe and tossed it on the bed, just missing throwing it on top of Bond. Turning back to his packing, he began launching items of clothing onto the bed with a bit more force than necessary, trying not to betray the tenseness of his shoulders or the clench of his jaw.

“I see. Is that what you think? That I’m just trying to seduce you? Get some information maybe, or, oh, maybe you’re just a cheap distraction? A means to an end?” Q had noticed that Bond almost never spoke rapidly, even when he was in the middle of a mission gone south. It was one of the reasons Q so loved seeing Bond at loose ends, desperate and begging to come. He felt such a surge of triumph knowing he could open Bond up, crack that composure wide enough to burrow inside and set Bond aflame. Now, though, Bond’s words are coming quick and flat, fracturing at the ends like bullets, and Q never wanted this, he never wanted it.

Shoving clothes into his suitcase, Q refused to meet the blue gaze he felt penetrating his skin. He tried, and failed, to make his tone light and carefree. “You know as well as I do that this—” he gestured vaguely, hand searching in the space between them, “—is just. Well, you’ll get bored, won’t you, and move on or…or, someone else, or maybe you’ll just leave and never come back and that’s. Fine. I’m not _asking_ for, for anything at all, but let’s not kid ourselves.” He shut the suitcase and dared a glance up.

 Bond was leaning forward, sheets pooled around his waist, and his eyes were hard. The moment spun out, both men motionless, thrumming with tension. Q dropped his eyes first, going back to the nightstand for his passport. As he put the passport into his pocket, Bond’s hand flashed out to circle his wrist, hot and heavy. Bond looked at where he gripped Q with a slight crease in his brow, as if he hadn’t realized his body was going to move until after it did.

Q tried to pull away, but Bond squeezed tighter and spoke soft and low. “What if I’m not kidding?”

The trill of Q’s mobile sounded, the noise too bright and sharp. Both men winced and Bond released Q’s wrist as if he’d been scalded. Q grabbed the phone off the nightstand to silence it, then looked at Bond. “That’s the car. I have to go.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll…I’ll see you when I get back. Lock up when you leave.”

Bond continued to stare at the empty space where Q had been long after he had closed the door.

***

When Q woke up, he was alone in the dark.

Then his eyes adjusted, and he tried to take in his surroundings. His first breath stabbed a hot needle into his side, and he gasped involuntarily. The air felt like it was throbbing around him, leaving a dull ache over every inch of him. Disoriented, he tried to move, to crawl away from the pain, and found he was tied to a chair. He could barely make out the room he was in; everything was fuzzy because his glasses were missing. He could tell that it was cold, damp, and the walls, ceiling, and floor appeared to be made of concrete. A fluorescent light hung above his head, flickering weakly and buzzing as if in nervous warning to all those who entered this room.

Flashes came back to him. Karzarov’s men. Being dragged from the hotel room. The sickening crack of bodies being fractured, bit by bit. A blindfold. The smell of blood. Scarlet flashes blooming in his face, his belly, his ribs.

Fingers reaching, Q twisted and maneuvered against the nylon ropes binding his wrists so he could access the indentation on his forearm, just above his wrist. A wave of nausea hit him when he leaned his weight to his left side and felt something inside him _shift_ wetly. Breathing heavily, he tried to focus and after a few moments found the slight ridge he was looking for and pressed it, activating the tracking implant he had put there. He hoped against hope that his subdermal mic had not dislodged. He had never been more thankful that he had made all the MI6 operatives, including handlers, implant his newly perfected com system two weeks ago.

“Hello? Is—is anyone there?” His voice was shredded and hoarse. He did not recognize it. Realising too late that even if there was someone there, he would not be able to hear them because Karzarov’s men had taken his earpiece, he let out a shallow, broken cry of denied hope. He heard a scream from far away. It could have been 005. Q swallowed with a dry click.

“If anyone can hear me, I think I’m underground. There were at least 5 men that captured us. I don’t know where 005 is. I’ve activated my tracker. Please,” he whispered. “Please find us.”

***

Bond was coming back from Mallory’s office. Q had been right, after the Egyptian consulate he now had three weeks off field word and loads of paperwork to do. Bond smirked as he made his way through the myriad halls of MI6; he’d had worse.

He found himself outside Q branch without realising that was where his feet had taken him. It was purely a force of habit, but seeing Q’s post empty left a hollow echo inside him, like water dripping inside a cave. All he could think of was their earlier fight. The look that had flashed in Q’s eyes before he had been called away had been playing on loop behind Bond’s eyelids all day. It was the same look Q had worn the first time they kissed. Bond thought that if he could understand what exactly that meant, he would be able to finally gain entrance to the secret, hidden parts of Q. Bond hated how much he wanted that.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity in Q branch. People started running frantically from desk to desk, typing faster and shouting to one another. Bond couldn’t make out what they were saying, but as he was about to go down the stairs to investigate, Tanner ran into him, nearly taking him off his feet.

“Jesus, Tanner! What’s going on?”

“005’s been captured,” Tanner huffed. Bond felt his stomach clench in commiseration followed by a flash of fear. He grabbed Tanner’s arm before he could turn to keep running. “Has Q reported?”

Tanner’s eyes searched Bond’s face, and he visibly shrank back at the ferocity of Bond’s grip on his arm. He shook his head once, hesitantly. Bond released his grip instantly and followed Tanner down into Q branch. The only word that kept blazing through his mind was _lost_.

***

Q was atomized, a collection of separate particles that once made a whole.

He had lost track of how long he had been in the room. He thought it might have been a full day. It could have been a week.

At seemingly random intervals, men in black on black suits came. They gave him water that tasted penny-bright in his mouth. They asked him questions. He did not answer them. The hot and heavy throb of his body became screams as the men turned their attention to breaking him.

When the men left the room, Q would try to describe them as best he could through the blurry haze of his muddled head and hopeless eyesight. One wore a signet ring. One spoke with a French accent. One was bald. One had a scar on his face. Any signifiers that Q could remember, he rasped brokenly in the vain hope that MI6 was listening. When he was done with his descriptions, he retreated into himself, trying in vain to escape the pain.

He searched in his mind for a place he felt safe, which meant that he thought of Bond. Did he know that Q had been captured? Or maybe he was still at Q’s flat, cooking pasta and humming The Clash. Q had been so surprised when he found out that Bond liked to cook for other people; it was such an act of nurturing, the sharing of nourishment. He thought of the watch Bond had kept. How he could value something so broken when it had once been beautiful.

Q flinched when the salt from his tears seeped into his wounds.

***

The recovery team was on its way. They could track the location. They had an exit strategy. Bond knew some of the men and women on the team, had trusted them with his life on more than one occasion. That didn’t stop him from barging in to Mallory’s office and demanding that he be allowed to front the recovery mission.

After five minutes of yelling, and another five of stony silence, Bond was dismissed to go back to Q branch and monitor the situation.

It had now been twenty-four hours. Q’s broken voice had come through four times. The cries of pain that made Bond clench his jaw and close his eyes were always followed by an attempt to describe his attackers and to give a status report. Every transmission scraped across Bond’s skin like sharpened steel, leaving him raw and stinging with fear and worry. _Just keep talking, Q_ , he thought every time silence fell. _You’re still with me if you’re still talking_.

The Q branch minions shot glances at him, wondering why he was still here. Some whispered to each other, putting two and two together. Bond didn’t care what they said or did. He stood, immobile, watching the central screen where Q’s vital signs were displayed and listening to the com channel, willing Q to speak again.

Each shattered breath that Q took was being broadcast to this room full of people, but Bond was the only one who was listening so hard he was breaking apart.

***

The men in black suits came for the last time. Q could sense the finality in the thud of their heavy shoes on the concrete floor, in the flat timbre of their voices when they asked about the surveillance network. They must have been trying to crack Q’s firewalls and failing. This was a last resort.

The loud click of the gun roused Q from the red haze he was floating in. It was Makarov PMM 9mm from the sound of it, and Bond’s words drifted through his head. _Karzarov doesn’t leave witnesses._

He recalled the feeling of Bond’s hands in his hair, stroking gently while the warm sunlight poured through his window, creating a pocket of heat under the duvet they both shared. Had that been only two days ago? Or was it two weeks? Absurdly, he thought of the small bottle of Dramamine he had discovered in his carry-on on the flight over. Bond must have put it there; no one else knew he was going on this mission. His breath caught on the shards of the memory and he tried to hold back his tears.

***

Bond stood, rigid, hands clenched into fists. The recovery team was nearing the building where they suspected that Q and 005 were being held. Just a few more minutes, and they should be in. _Please,_ Bond thought. It would have been a prayer if he believed in anything.

***

“If you will not give us what we want, we are done here,” the man holding the Makarov intoned flatly. He was the bald one.

Q nodded, bracing. His blood was rushing in his ears. He heard the uneven thudding of his heart speed up.

“Any last words?” The Marakov was now pressed against the center of his forehead. The cool metal of the end of the muzzle felt like a malevolent kiss against his feverish skin.

Q swallowed thickly, razors down his throat, and he stemmed the flow of his tears. “I’ll tell you how to get past the firewalls.”

Baldy lowered the gun and edged forward slightly, still cautious. “Yes?”

“Your computer. Have you…have you tried turning it off and turning it back on again?” Baldy looked confused until Q started to wheeze laughter in spite of the pain. The Marakov came down in an arc to hit him across his cheekbone, shattering it.

Q felt the details of his life seeping out of him as the pain took over. Right now it didn’t matter that he was the smartest man in almost any room, or the youngest section head in MI6, or the youngest of 3 brothers or that he liked cats and tea and Keats. All that existed was pain, and death, and the end.

***

Bond watched the transponder dots move across the screen as the recovery team infiltrated the building. They were sweeping each floor, working their way down to the basement. If Q was there, they’d reach him in minutes.

Bond heard the dull crack of the muzzle against Q’s cheek and once more he was reminded of the cage he could not open in Venice, of the hollow cold of a chapel in Scotland. How very cruel that life had allowed him every opportunity to protect his country but never the people he loved.

***

“You think you’re funny?” Baldy asked, raising the gun once more.

Q stared down the barrel of the gun and knew that he was done, and that he was alone.

***

Bond was digging his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. He could almost hear the thoughts running through his quartermaster’s head, how close he was to giving up and resigning himself to death. _Stall, Q. Stall, they just need a little more time._

***

Q shrank away from the weapon, gasping brokenly, “Please, no. I don’t want to—no, no, no please, James, _James!_ ”

There was a loud bang, and then the darkness swallowed Q whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE DON'T HURT ME, IT WILL BE OK, I PROMISE.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q was being kept under sedation, so he hadn’t woken yet. Bond waited, and watched. He slept once, for a few hours. He had been holding Q’s hand, smoothing a thumb over each of Q’s knuckles until the soft movement lulled him to sleep. After Bond dozed off, he continued to clutch Q’s hand in his, seeking to create a lifeline that Q could use to come back to him.
> 
> Bond dreamed of the sea. Cold fingers of seaweed twisted and slithered around him, trying to drag him down as he swam out to find something he had lost. He dove down and down, searching, but he saw only watery shadows. Every time he tried to swim back to the top, the irresistible current dragged him under. He woke up gasping for breath.
> 
>  
> 
> Wherein Q is recovering, Bond is protective, and both of them have to finally admit what's going on between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbeta'd and not Brit-picked, so as always, all mistakes are mine.

The darkness was blue. Q thought it would be black, but he was afloat in an ocean, a vast indigo swell that lifted and pressed against him. It was calming, but it wasn’t right. It was only _almost_ right. He tried to claw his way through the thick substance enveloping him, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t think, which should have been alarming, but it just wasn’t. There was only the deep blue nothingness, and he drifted in the calm. It was endless and it might have been soothing once but Q felt instinctively that something was off. He felt a distant throb of concern, but he could not find a way out of this place. He was trapped there, collapsing like a star under the pressure of the wrong shade of blue.

***

Visiting hours at the hospital were from 9:00 to 19:00. Bond had been in Q’s room for 56 straight hours and counting. Mallory had made a call after James had nearly broken the arm of an orderly who was trying to force him to leave. Now they all left him alone.

 

Q was being kept under sedation, so he hadn’t woken yet. Bond waited, and watched. He slept once, for a few hours. He had been holding Q’s hand, smoothing a thumb over each of Q’s knuckles until the soft movement lulled him to sleep. After Bond dozed off, he continued to clutch Q’s hand in his, seeking to create a lifeline that Q could use to come back to him.

Bond dreamed of the sea. Cold fingers of seaweed twisted and slithered around him, trying to drag him down as he swam out to find something he had lost. He dove down and down, searching, but he saw only watery shadows. Every time he tried to swim back to the top, the irresistible current dragged him under. He woke up gasping for breath.

***

Q’s limbs were made of stone, obtuse and immobile. He wanted to get back to – something. There was something important. Not here. Here was dark ultramarine, thick around him like velvet. All of it was heavy and wrong. He kept trying to reach for a point of contact, but there was nothing. Nothing but fathomless indigo. He thought he might stay there forever, but he felt somewhere deep inside the discordant blue that there was a home he needed to return to.

 

And then – there.

 

There was light. He heard. And the light, it made the blue better, brighter. He felt an avalanche beginning, the stone of his limbs crumbling, rolling away as he dragged himself up and up and up, into the light, into the beautiful blue light that was getting brighter and clearer and it was almost right again, finally, and then—

 

“Q? _Q?_ ” Bond stared down at him, his eyes wide and bright with relief. As Q slowly opened his eyes, he realized that his vision was fuzzy because his glasses were missing. He saw clearly enough to think _There…there’s the right blue_ without really knowing why.

***

It had been over an hour filled with bright lights, murmuring voices, and dull, blunt flares of pain. Q was still heavily medicated, but as the doctors performed tests and checked his vitals, his eyes stayed tracked on Bond, silent and motionless in one darkened corner of the hospital room. A laundry list of his injuries was rattled off, but Q paid little attention. Broken bones, internal bleeding, concussions—the words sluiced off him. He was alive. Q missed the calm nothingness of his sea, and he felt overwhelmed and fuzzy, but Bond’s watchful presence was a buoy he clung to, keeping him from being pulled back under.

 

Finally, the doctors and nurses left and they were alone in the clinical silence.

 

Bond emerged from the shadows slowly, moving in a steady current with no break. Q was swept away by the tight squeeze around his heart when Bond reached his bedside and brushed Q’s hair back from his forehead. The feel of Bond’s skin on his caused Q to breathe in a deep lungful of thorns. At the intake of breath, Bond quickly withdrew his hand, and Q couldn’t find the words to ask for it back. He hadn’t realized just how sure he had been that he’d never feel that skin again. Bond spoke lowly as his eyes roamed over the broken body in front of him. “If you wanted to test your mettle as a field agent, I can think of easier ways.”

 

Q smiled wanly, but then his eyes widened in sudden fear. “005, is he—”

 

“Made it out, just like you. He’s down the hall. They think he’ll pull through.”

 

Q sagged under the weight of his relief. “How did—” he swallowed with a dry click. His voice was thick with the dust of disuse. Bond took a cup of water on the bedside table and lifted it to Q’s lips so he could drink.

 

“Shh, it’s alright. Your tracker worked perfectly and the recovery team got to you and 005 just in time. Karzarov’s men had already shot 005 but the team got to him before he bled out. You were the only string left to cut. It was lucky the team got to you when they did. Even a few more seconds and…” Bond averted his eyes as he trailed off. Q felt sick and hollow, suddenly taken back to the chill of that concrete room and the slick throb in his guts once more.

 

“Did they…the intel, did they get it?” Q’s voice was a near whisper, and he could feel himself sliding back into a fuzzy haze of medication, but he tried desperately to keep his eyes open.

 

“The only person who could have given them access proved uncooperative.” Bond’s lips quirked up into an almost smile.

 

“Bond…” Q exhaled softly. He saw Bond’s face harden slightly, then relax, and then Q was slipping back into the darkness.

***

They did not speak of the past.

 

The doctors said Q would be in hospital for at least two more weeks. Now that Q had awoken from his coma, Bond had actually gone home, but he visited every day. He smuggled in Earl Grey for Q and brought him fresh gossip from Moneypenny.

 

Bond tried not to let Q see the hollows under his eyes from his sleepless nights. A near miss should not have affected him so, but when he tried to sleep, a shredded chorus sounded in his head. _James_. Q had called for him. And Bond had been powerless. How betrayed must Q have felt in that instant? How utterly disappointed. Bond felt a coldness twist and splinter through his gut every time he relived that moment—hearing his name for the first _(last)_ time, torn out of Q. Now his quartermaster, his brilliant, bossy, infuriatingly cocky quartermaster lay shattered, and Bond was the one who felt destroyed. Even if he tried to tell himself that Q had been thinking of him at the last, had called for _him_ , not Bond, not 007—how could he ask? Bond knew well enough the sharp purity of the moments just before inevitable death. As much as he wanted to believe that they could take this second chance and move forward, now was not the time. Q still had so much healing to do. Bond knew that if he pushed Q this time, he could destroy any chance they might possibly have to stay in each others’ lives, and he refused to risk it. Not after he finally knew what it felt like to have something he thought he’d lost forever come back to him.  

 

Q tried not to think about the cold tang of metal on his forehead, or of the words ripped from his throat in his last moments in that dank, dark room. He was going out of his mind in this hospital room with nothing to occupy his mind but his memories. He slept constantly to escape the combination of boredom and the seemingly endless flashes of sense memory. The smell of expensive aftershave and even more expensive scotch was what made the ghosts of Karzarov’s men disappear every day. Bond would arrive and Q would wake up and smile even though it made his cheek ache cruelly. How badly he wanted the comfort of Bond’s hands, his lips—anything to connect them, to remind Q that he had survived, that Bond was still here, in spite of Q’s cowardice. The irony that he could stand up to terrorists but not to his own feelings was not lost on him. Bond’s presence was a comfort, but Bond did not touch him. The hardening in Bond’s eyes when Q had left before the mission—the way he had pulled his hand away so quickly that first night Q had awoken—it told Q all he needed to know about where they stood. And Q understood that what he had lost in that dingy room underground was so much bigger than any doctor could mend.

 

They maintained a certain unspoken agreement that levity was the best way to distract them both from the silent stitching of Q’s bones mending back together. They played gin rummy. They watched quiz shows together.

 

They did not speak of the past.

***

“Careful, easy does it…”

 

“I think I can manage to walk into my own flat, Bond.” Q’s tone betrayed his peevishness at the fact that his newfound freedom from the hospital was tainted by his need for someone to assist him home.

 

Bond rolled his eyes, having grown used to Q’s prickliness during the three weeks of his recovery so far. Q had already tutted and fretted over how fast Bond was driving, the hospital’s abysmal tea, and the state of London traffic just since his release from the hospital a few hours earlier. He was progressing remarkably, but that didn’t stop him complaining and trying to push himself beyond his body’s capability. As Bond helped support Q’s weight so they could walk over the threshold, Bond’s arm around Q’s waist was warm and solid, and Q couldn’t help the way his stomach flooded with warmth and anxiety as the memories of the last time they were in this flat together slammed into him. With Bond leading the way, Q reached the couch and sank down into it while Bond set about fixing him a cup of tea.

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Q huffed wearily. “I can manage, I just need to sit here for a moment.”

 

Q’s eyes were closed, but he could hear the smirk in 007’s voice. “Really. Show me how you plan to get the tea off the top shelf, then.”

 

With a glare, Q locked eyes with Bond as he pushed himself off the couch with a barely audible groan, then slowly made his way into the kitchen. He’d be damned if he couldn’t make himself his own cup of tea in his own flat. Bond was leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, clearly relishing the chance to prove Q wrong about his need for help.

 

Q crowded against Bond, attempting futilely to muscle him out of the way. Bond sidestepped fractionally, watching Q fondly as he squeezed in between Bond and the counter. Q tipped his head back to gaze at the neatly arranged tins of tea on the top shelf of the cupboard. The look of trepidation on his face would have been comical had Bond not known just how badly damaged Q’s body still was. Bond knew he could have pressed the issue, scolded until Q relented, but 007 had always felt that the “sink or swim” approach was best.

 

Reaching up with his right arm, Q’s hand hovered almost to the top shelf when he inhaled sharply and choked back a cry. He gritted his teeth at the ice-edged razor he felt slicing into him where his broken rib was still mending. It was childish to be this stubborn about something so mundane as tea, Q knew, but he was so tired of the helplessness he had been forced into. The looks of pity. The hushed tones. Bond was the only one who didn’t treat him like a victim, but when he thought Q wasn’t looking, he let down his guard and Q saw the haunted concern in Bond’s bloodshot eyes, the hollows at his temples, and the slight way his hands sometimes trembled, only for a moment, before he willed them to still. Q always saw. There were moments when it seemed that being near Q caused Bond such pain that Q did not understand why he continued to show up, every day, like clockwork. Some days, Bond did not understand why Q continued to let him.

 

At Q’s cry, Q watched out of the corner of his eye as Bond stiffened, his jaw drawn tight, but he stayed where he was, observing. Hand trembling, Q reached up the last few centimeters and grabbed the canister, fumbling with it in the air before letting it fall to the counter. Q braced himself with both palms flat on the counter and took in a deep breath through his nose, huffing it quickly back out when the pain in his side flared again. “Told you I could get it,” he breathed, just shy of panting.

 

Bond was still leaning against the counter, and he stared at Q’s back, at the quick rise and fall of Q’s breathing as he leaned forward, head down, trying to regain his composure. The nape of Q’s neck was exposed, just the few centimeters of pale skin between his collar and the first curling tendrils of thick, inky hair, and Bond was struck with the sudden urge to memorize that patch of skin before it disappeared forever. The cells of Q’s body were healing, destroying the damaged flesh and replacing it with new. Soon there would be nothing left of the Q that Bond had felt under his hands, the man who had called his name out in the swallowing darkness. He was vanishing before Bond’s eyes. Even though he had come back, it still felt like Bond had lost Q nevertheless, and Bond knew that if he pressed his lips to that small strip of skin, it would taste like a ghost.

 

“You always have to be so _stubborn_ ,” Bond murmured, and Q craned his neck back to meet Bond’s gaze. He was clearly not referring to the tea.

 

“You wouldn’t have me any other way, though, would you?” Q’s voice was soft and still slightly breathless, making his question sound more provocative than he had meant for it to be.

 

“I should go.” Bond searched Q’s eyes, looking for confirmation.

 

“Bond—” Q began, but stopped abruptly when he saw the hardness that suddenly crept into Bond’s eyes at the sound of his name. The moment crumbled away beneath them. Bond pushed off the counter, grabbed his jacket, and with a low “See you at the office,” he was gone.

***

“Glad you’re back, Q,” Tanner said as he clapped Q on the shoulder. They were on their way to Mallory’s office for Q to be brought up to speed on current assignments. He had already received a brief but seemingly heartfelt round of applause when he walked into Q branch that morning. Eve had stopped by to wish him well and gently tease him about the flush of embarrassment that hadn’t left his cheeks all day. Q just wanted everything to return to normal, but the entire day had been a constant reminder of his time as a damsel in distress.

 

“Can’t everyone just forget about the whole thing?” Q griped into the mug of tea Eve handed him in his office. He had been ready to go home for an hour, but he was stalling. His office should have provided him the comfort he craved, but it seemed that since he had gotten out of hospital, everywhere he went he felt uncomfortable and out of place. Even here, in his own personal sanctuary, Q bristled at the way the air pressed in on him, like an ill-fitting suit.

 

“Well, darling, you know you provided weeks of gossip around here. They just want to see how it all shakes out.” Eve perched on the edge of his desk and sipped her tea, looking over her cup at him with warm brown eyes.

 

“It’s not as if no one’s ever been captured before.”

 

She put her cup down and asked hesitantly, “You do know…you know what they heard, don’t you?”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

Eve tried to keep her expression neutral, but Q could see the ghost of worry that settled behind her eyes. “Your signal was broadcasting here in Q branch. Your comm was on and everyone could hear—well, it was a stressful situation, we all know. You might not even remember. But you—you called out for…”

 

The office slid away as Q closed his eyes and felt his face burn.

 

“So they all know.” He opened his eyes to see her look of pity and felt his flush deepen.

 

“Well. Suspect. It’s all just rumours. You know people have to be discreet here. But when he stood here, waiting, the entire time you were captured, it wasn’t difficult to suss it out—” and Q could see her lips moving, but the words were lost to him. He was far away, pinned under the weight of _he stood here, waiting, the entire time you were captured_. It had never occurred to Q that Bond was actually _there_. That he had heard. The knowledge shifted something inside of Q, and suddenly all he could see was the hard edge of blue eyes every time he said the name “Bond.”

 

Q didn’t even notice the pain in his side or the surprised look on Eve’s face as he slung his laptop bag over his shoulder and hurried out the door without so much as a goodbye.

***

Bond knew something was wrong the moment he reached the door to his flat. Gun in hand, he opened the door to the studio with no hesitation and stepped into the darkness, tensed and ready for the fight. Flicking a light on, he found his quartermaster sitting on his bed, blinking owlishly behind his glasses and scowling.

 

“Q? Jesus, what are you doing here?”

 

Bond could tell that Q was upset in the tense line of his shoulders and the deep crease in his brow. His hands were idly turning something over and over; the motions were quick and fluttering, as though Q’s hands were birds that he could not control. They swooped and dove in a kaleidoscope of motion that made Bond’s heart hurt to look at. Something was very wrong here.

 

“Why did you keep this?” Q’s voice was soft, wondering, completely at odds with his posture and nervous movement.

 

“Q, I—” Bond was halfway across the open space of the flat before he saw what Q was holding and he stopped abruptly, his guts roiling.

 

Q held up the damaged watch, tilting his head to observe the light glinting off the small bits of titanium that weren’t scorched black. “You said it was because I made it for you, but that’s not why. I make you lots of things. Why this watch? What makes it special?”

 

Bond looked at Q’s strong fingers cradling the charred piece of metalwork and swallowed thickly. He didn’t know what game Q was playing, and he felt the careful illusion they’d spent the last few months building between them begin to crack and peel.

 

“Do you remember what you said when you gave it to me?” Bond asked.

 

Q looked up at Bond quizzically, but his shoulders lost some of their sharp edge. He seemed relieved that Bond was actually going to answer the question.

 

Bond took three deliberate steps forward to stand directly in front of Q, looking down on him. He looked so much smaller than Bond remembered, hunched in on himself and still broken. Bond took the watch gently from Q’s hands and turned it over, looking at it as though for the first time. Quietly, he said, “It was after I destroyed the boat in Barcelona. You were so furious about it. I think, more than anything, you were shocked that anything could have possibly happened to something you spent so much time on. And you wouldn’t give me any tech for weeks, do you remember?”

 

“Because you—” Q started with an indignant splutter, but Bond cut him off. “I know, I know. But you had to make this for me for Belize, and you spent days on it, I know you did. You were so proud,” Bond chuckled softly at the memory and trailed into silence. Q waited.

 

“So I came in and you showed me the transmitters and the encoding, but all I could think was how…how beautiful it was. So clever. And you put it on my wrist and said, ‘Please don’t ruin this one, Bond, the way you do all the others.’” He remembered the feel of Q’s fingertips brushing against his wrist, the sudden shimmer of heat that was between them, fading into afterburn. And he remembered wanting, for the first time since M died, to make someone proud of him.

 

Bond was no longer looking at the watch, and Q could feel the presence of Bond’s gaze on his skin. Q was surprised and angry at his former self. “I didn’t mean…”

 

“No, you did. And you were right. I ruined it. But just because I ruin something doesn’t mean I can’t still love it.”

 

Q’s eyes flicked upwards to meet Bond’s. That word hung heavy between them, insinuating itself into the very air that surrounded them until they could taste it in each other’s shallow breaths.

 

Q pushed himself off the bed to stand in front of Bond, drawing himself up so they were eye-to-eye. Bond gazed back at him levelly, and inside he hoped against hope that this was what Q wanted, because he did not know if he could hold back any more.

 

“Why are you here, Q?”

 

Green eyes that looked hazel on cloudy days darted over Bond’s face, and Bond could see that this was it, the moment that would split their existence into Before and After.

 

“I know you heard. When I was captured, what I said at—at the end. I know you were there, and you probably thought, all this time, that I was blaming—or, or that I didn’t want, but Christ, I _do_. I mean, I do want. You. James. And I’m so sorry.” Q leaned forward to press his lips against Bond’s briefly, testing, and then abruptly pulled back, afraid that he had made a terrible mistake.

 

Bond’s face was unreadable, but when he spoke, his voice was laced with a dark need that made Q shiver slightly. “Say it again.”

 

“I’m sorry, I’m so—”

 

“No. Say it again.”

 

Q grinned when he understood. “James. I want you, James. I’m sorry, Ja—” and Bond’s lips were on his, finally, and it was the feeling of the summer sun warming his bare skin after months of spring rains.

 

Q’s lips tasted of desperation, and Bond was drinking it in. They settled into the easy ebb and flow of muscle memory, and when Q breathed in one of Bond’s humid gasps against his mouth, it felt like Q was being dragged under by a current he couldn’t resist.

 

Bond tugged at the zipper of Q’s cardigan and began to take it off, but when one of Q’s arms twisted behind him, Q hissed in pain. “Rib,” he gritted.

 

“Shit, sorry. I shouldn’t have…” Bond shook his head. “We don’t have to, tonight, we can just…” he gestured lamely towards the bed.

 

Now that the promise of something was burning between them, Q was hesitant to stop but he felt his exhaustion from this long and very eventful day settling into his bones, filling up the spaces where they had not quite mended and making him ache. “Would it be alright if we just slept tonight?” he asked, feeling foolish but grateful when Bond nodded.

 

After carefully undressing and curling up next to Bond with his head over Bond’s heart, Q realized as he drifted off to sleep that the reason he could not decode the gaps between Bond’s heartbeats for so long was because they exactly matched the cadence of his own.

***

Q woke to the absence of sound that filled the flat when the shower was suddenly turned off. Rolling onto his side, he blinked the sleep out of his eyes as a blurry James Bond emerged from the steam of the bathroom with a white towel wrapped around his waist and drops of water clinging in his hair. Bond came to lay back down on his side of the bed next to Q, and leaned over to kiss him fully awake.

 

“Mm, thought you were going to sleep all morning.” Bond nosed into the space just below Q’s ear and kissed there.

 

“How could I sleep when I had this to wake up to?” Q murmured, and his voice was roughened by sleep just enough that the line sounded warm without being cheesy. He pulled Bond down for another kiss and licked against the seam of Bond’s mouth, grinning when tiny droplets of water began to rain down on him from Bond’s hair. Q was naked save for his pants, and though the duvet was between them, the heat of Bond’s bare skin seeping into his was delicious. The kiss was slow, but as it grew heated, both men battled for dominance until Bond tried to blanket Q’s body with his and Q cried out in pain.

 

“I’m sorry,” he huffed breathlessly. “If we’re going to do this, we’ll have to move—I can’t—” Q stuttered, and Bond shushed him with a soft kiss. “Don’t apologize. We're in this together. It’s all fine—we’ll, we’ll just go slow, ok?”

 

Bond moved to the other side of the bed to lay on his back and gently pulled Q to straddle him. “Better?” In answer, Q leaned down to mouth hotly against Bond’s jawline and the sensitive skin of his throat, tasting the clean musk of Bond’s soap and the heat of his blood, causing Bond to groan. Q’s hips began to undulate in soft, rolling waves, and he purred happily when he felt Bond’s cock thicken against the cleft of his arse. As Q continued to grind against him, Bond gripped a handful of Q’s bed-tousled hair and pulled him into a filthy kiss, using his tongue to tease Q according to the rhythm of Q’s hips.

 

“Tell me what you want,” Bond rumbled low against the skin of Q’s neck before scraping his teeth there roughly, then laving over the spot with his tongue. Q pushed himself up so that he could run his hands over the scarred map of Bond’s chest, and said, “I want you to fuck me, like this. I want, ah—” Q choked on his words as Bond grabbed Q’s hips in both hands and dragged him backwards a few centimeters so that their erections were now sliding against each other through the almost-too-much friction of Q’s pants and Bond’s towel. “Yesss,” Q breathed, and he leaned forward again to suck Bond’s plush lower lip between his teeth while still rolling his hips slowly.

 

Bond reached into the nightstand and grabbed the bottle of lube there. “Pants off. Now,” Bond growled and Q dismounted long enough to remove them while Bond threw his towel across the room. Straddling Bond once more, Q breathed in sharply when he felt the cold, slick press of a finger at his entrance. “Shh, it’s ok,” Bond murmured and sat up so that Q was now astride his lap and they were chest to chest. As he left a trail of searing kisses down Q’s throat, Bond’s arm circled Q and anchored him while his other hand circled and teased the tight ring of muscle at Q’s center. Q pressed his forehead against Bond’s and when Bond breached his body, Q inhaled shakily and breathed out a soft, “James…” with a sigh.

 

Bond was set aflame by the luscious sounds he was causing Q to make, and he gradually added a second finger, scissoring Q open achingly slowly. “God, Q, I’ve missed this,” Bond whispered and Q choked back a whimper when Bond’s talented fingers brushed his prostate. “James…James _please_ ,” Q moaned, and Bond withdrew his fingers. After slicking his hard cock with more lube, Bond lay back so that Q could shuffle forward and ease himself down around Bond carefully.

 

“That’s it, easy, love,” Bond soothed as Q rolled his hips in an unbearably sweet slide. It was a languorous grind, a slow burn that had Q’s muscles shaking and his breathing coming in huge, gasping lungfuls. Bond’s hands were scorching, curved around Q’s hipbones, and though he allowed Q to control the pace, he controlled the force, turning Q inside out with the inexorable strength of his thrusts.

 

“James, fuck, oh god, yes,” Q was nearly sobbing and Bond sat up to kiss Q hard as he reached between them to stroke Q’s flushed cock in time with his thrusts. Bond had never wanted anything as badly as he wanted to taste the sound of his name coming from Q’s mouth. It only took a few strokes before Q was moaning against Bond’s lips, “James, ah, _James_ ,” and then Q was clenching around him and painting his release across his belly and chest. The deep tremors vibrating through Q as his inner muscles worked around Bond were enough to send him over the edge, and he came with a muffled groan.

 

Q kissed Bond deeply and brought his arms around Bond’s neck to bring them together in a messy embrace. He pulled back, then brought his lips to Bond’s ear to say lowly, “My name is Quinlan. I do prefer Q, though.”

 

Bond huffed a small laugh and kissed the curve between Q’s neck and his shoulder. A warmth that he had not felt in a long time curled into the hollow spaces in his chest, weaving its way around his heart and taking up residence there. “Noted. I must say, I do like it better when you call me James.”

 

Q leaned back to meet Bond’s gaze. “I still don’t quite understand. Why do you _need_ me to call you James? Why is that so important to you?”

 

“For the same reason you didn’t want to.”

 

Q’s forehead crinkled, his eyes searching Bond’s in confusion.

 

“Because it makes this real.”

 

Q grinned at the implication and pulled Bond in for another kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT. IS. FINISHED.
> 
> Thank you so much to all of you who have read and commented along the way--you really don't know how much I appreciate it. This was supposed to be a one-shot, and it just grew and grew until it was beyond my control. Thank you especially for your patience waiting for this last chapter. I know it was delayed, and I apologize; I sincerely hope that you think it was worth the wait. 
> 
> Special thanks goes to the other half of my BrOTP, chemicaldefect, without whom this story would not have been nearly as dirty or as coherent. Thank you, lovely, for listening to my crazy and feeding it with your own :)
> 
> Note: Quinlan comes from the Irish or Gaelic. It means "fit, shapely, strong." I thought it fitting for Q.
> 
> Also, if you want, you can follow me on Tumblr at a-bit-not-good-yeah.tumblr.com


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